


Unforgettable

by eggsbenni221



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary - Helen Fielding
Genre: F/M, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, What-If
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-21
Updated: 2017-04-22
Packaged: 2018-10-22 00:13:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10685802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eggsbenni221/pseuds/eggsbenni221
Summary: He drove toward her flat, thrusting aside the protests against his impulse to remedy the situation. He needed to approach things rationally, but at that precise moment, he found he didn't care. All that mattered to him now was finding a way back into her heart, and nothing would stand in his way if he could help it. (EOR book universe).





	1. Forgotten but Not Gone

**Author's Note:**

> This story picks up just after Mark and Bridget split in EOR, following the house-party at Rebecca's and bridget spotting Mark exiting a taxi with her. As always, typos and formatting errors are mine.

> If any one faculty of our nature may be called more wonderful than the rest, I do think it is memory. There seems something more speakingly incomprehensible in the powers, the failures, the inequalities of memory, than in any other of our intelligences. The memory is sometimes so retentive, so serviceable, so obedient; at others, so bewildered and so weak; and at others again, so tyrannic, so beyond control! We are, to be sure, a miracle in every way; but our powers of recollecting and of forgetting do seem peculiarly past finding out.- Jane Austen, Mansfield Park

#### Mark, Saturday 1 March

Mark Darcy stood stock still, one hand massaging his forehead, the other resting limply atop the phone, which he’d just put down. How could he, with his logical, well-ordered life, always manage to make such a train-wreck of his romantic relationships? Admittedly he didn’t suppose he could locate his first marriage under the heading of romantic, and yet despite his decision to marry for convenience rather than for love, he’d entered into the arrangement intending to make an honest go of it. In retrospect, he realized the mistake he’d made after the experience of falling suddenly, overwhelmingly, absolutely in love with Bridget. Of course, he found her perpetual tardiness mildly irritating, her impressive and ironically unhelpful library of self-help literature bizarre, and her grasp of current affairs somewhat dodgy, but such quirks, rather than forming part of a litany of her faults, in fact added to her charm. How then, he wondered, could everything have spun so quickly out of control?

Following that agonizingly awkward weekend at Rebecca’s house-party which had involved, among other embarrassments, discovering Bridget apparently snogging a marijuana-addled whippersnapper, Mark felt as though someone had let the air out of their relationship. Bridget would have told him—had in fact just told him—that Rebecca was that person.

“Rebecca’s been making a play for you for a month,” she’d declared on the phone. Frowning, Mark rubbed his forehead again as he began to pace. If Rebecca had wanted to come between him and Bridget, why, he wondered, would she have been so warm, so inviting to the both of them? A woman—and Mark realized now just how little he understood about women—surely wouldn’t help a man plan a romantic Valentine’s Day weekend with his girlfriend if she were secretly plotting to lure him away from said girlfriend. Such logic, if logic one could call it, defied comprehension; then again, so did Bridget. Admittedly, Rebecca had seemed overly attentive during the weekend, and he couldn’t help wondering what might have given her the impression that he was considering splitting up with Bridget. Surely she’d misunderstood. Then Mark had discovered Bridget in the dining-room with that ridiculous whippersnapper St John, and he’d hardly had a moment to decide if he wanted to throttle the impudent scoundrel or demand an explanation from Bridget before Rebecca had tittered apologetically and shut the door, as if finding the pair of them like that hadn’t surprised her in the least, as if—but it made no sense. Mark had spent the rest of the weekend and a painfully awkward drive back to London trying and failing to piece the whole mess together before leaving Bridget off at her flat. As he’d driven off, he’d discovered, to his irritation, a tear threatening to slide its way down his cheek. He’d swiped angrily at the offending traces of it, grateful only that Bridget hadn’t witnessed his wall of reserve beginning to crumble. He’d spent the next several days agonizing over what he might do, what he might say to regain some equilibrium in their relationship, because despite everything, the thought of ending things with Bridget left him with a dull, hollow ache in his chest that seemed a shadow of the empty stretch of life before him without her. He’d had every intention of trying to find some way to reconcile with her, but then she’d had the misfortune the previous night to spot him exiting a taxi with none other than Rebecca. The encounter had been entirely by chance and utterly innocent; he’d bumped into Rebecca when meeting colleagues for drinks and had agreed, albeit reluctantly, to share a taxi with her. He hadn’t considered at the time how such a decision might appear suspicious, but in retrospect, he realized how the scene must have looked to Bridget. Christ, he’d been an idiot. When he’d finally reached her after several failed endeavors to call, lost and floundering in the sea of his own confusion, he’d stammered something about owing it to her to be friends, which of course, he realized now, had to have sounded like the most insincere attempt at offering an olive branch that he could possibly have come up with. 

“Honey,” she’d scoffed, to the soundtrack of Jude and Sharon’s giggles of encouragement, naturally, “I don’t need anyone in my life because they ‘owe it to me’. I have got the best, most loyal, wise, witty, caring, supportive friends in the world, and if I were to be your friend after the way you’ve treated me, you would be really lucky."

Her words had left Mark reeling, first with the shock of her accusation, then with the horrifying realization of there being a kernel of truth hidden in the alcohol-lubricated, ranty feminist waffle she’d fed him. Upon reflection, he understood that he ought to have given her concerns about Rebecca’s ulterior motives toward him consideration rather than dismissing them out of hand; he was a barrister, for god’s sake. He couldn’t just dismiss a claim without examining all of the evidence, and yet he’d done precisely that. Then too, he had found himself in Rebecca’s company without Bridget as a buffer more than he might have thought prudent had he bothered to think of it at all; Rebecca dragging him off ahead of Bridget in the grounds; Rebecca seating him next to her at dinner; Rebecca enlisting his help with odd jobs like removing the pool cover. Then there’d been her puzzling—though not unkind—reaction to discovering Bridget and St John in an unmistakably intimate moment.

“You poor thing,” Rebecca had murmured, stroking his arm as if he’d been a frightened rabbit. “I’m so sorry, Mark. If I’d had any idea—I thought I knew Bridget—but perhaps it’s all for the best.”

“Please,” he’d replied tersely, holding up a hand to silence her. “Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry, Mark. Truly. I didn’t mean—I only thought--”

“I’d prefer not to discuss it, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course,” she’d acquiesced, offering him a sympathetic smile, “but if I can help at all. . .”

“Thank you,” he’d said. “I think Bridget and I had best sort this out.”

‘Sorting this out’ had involved an awkward conversation lubricated with lust and whiskey and culminating in a glorious session of conflict-resolution sex that had in fact resolved nothing. Mark’s logical instincts told him that this was the source of their problems, and yet, had the sex been slightly less spectacular, he might have felt more guilt over it. Bridget’s instincts about Rebecca had, now that he’d examined them more thoroughly, carried weight, and if he had any hope of salvaging their relationship, all that remained for him to do was swallow his pride.

Glancing at the clock, Mark realized it was nearly 11.00; he crossed to the phone again, picked it up, frowned, set it down, and reached for his keys without pausing to reconsider. As he drove toward Bridget’s flat, he thrust aside the protests against his impulse to remedy this situation, his gaze sliding distractedly from the road. He needed to calm himself and approach this rationally, and in any case, Jude and Sharon would more than likely still be sprawled drunkenly on Bridget’s floor. At that precise moment, however, he found he didn’t care. If they wanted to tear open and dissect his apology as if he were a bloody laboratory mouse, let them; all that mattered to Mark now was finding a way back into Bridget’s heart, and nothing would stand in his way if he could help it.

* * *

#### Bridget, Sunday 2 March

Weight: 10 st (feels like). Calories: 5,682 (almost entirely minipizzas). Alcohol units: 5 (modest). Cigarettes: 22 (bad, but stress-induced). Crimes committed: 1 (possibly, though not premeditated). Boyfriends: inconclusive (see above). 

#### 11.00 AM

Oh my bloody God and fuck. Have most acidic hangover. Jude and Shaz came round last night for feminist summit to dissect Mark Darcy fiasco, re: spotting him exiting a taxi with bloody Rebecca while leaving Miss Saigon with Mum, Dad, and Una and Geoffrey Alconbury. Grrrr, have apparently offended all deities in universe as suffering humiliation of seeing one’s boyfriend getting out of a taxi with tall, elegant, swishy-haired frenemy smiling up into his face was insufficient without said humiliation being witnessed by self’s parents and parents’ closest friends, particularly when one of those friends had to be Geoffrey Alconbury. Why me? Why? Why? Why?

Of course, girls and I were all thoroughly squiffy when Mark decided to ring and feed me load of fuckwitted waffle about owing it to me to be friends, and I went all Linda Fiorentino on him, calling him ‘honey’ and everything! Tralalala, take that, Mark Darcy! Except now feel have made worst possible mistake; keep playing over Mark’s words before he put down the phone.

“All right, you’ve said enough. If you don’t want me to explain, I won’t pester you with phone calls. Goodbye, Bridget.” He sounded so sad, like miserable, bedraggled puppy that someone had kicked about a thousand times and then left out in the rain, and could just imagine that wounded, defeated look in his eyes—those deep, dark, expressive brown eyes that—no! Stop this! Am confident, assured, woman of substance who values self-worth above all things. Oh God though, I’m so lonely! Am going to die alone like tragic spinster and—ooo goody! Telephone! Maybe Mark Darcy!

#### 11.30 AM

In state of utter shock. Unbelievable, really, how life can change from one minute to the next; here I was, thinking that splitting from successful barrister boyfriend was worst possible thing that could happen to self, and entire time was closer than realized to losing Mark Darcy forever. Was sitting miserably in flat, contemplating life of barren spinsterhood when phone rang. Launched self across the room and snatched it up.

“Mark,” I gabbled, sure it was him, “Mark, I’m so sorry! I was so stupid! I didn’t mean any of it! Well, I mean, I did, but I wasn’t--”

“Bridget,” said a woman’s voice, “This—this is Elaine Darcy.” Oh God! Cannot believe had been on verge of confessing guilt over squiffy feminist Linda Fiorentino rant and doubts of boyfriend’s fidelity to said boyfriend’s mother.

“Oh, hi!” I squeaked. “Um, if you’re looking for Mark, he’s not—I mean I haven’t--”

“No, that’s not the reason I’m calling,” said Elaine. “I’m sorry, dear, I know this will come as something of a shock, but I’m afraid there’s been an accident.” Vision started going blotchy and had to sit down to keep room from spinning.

“An accident? Is it Mark? He wasn’t—he isn’t. . .”

“He’s alive,” Elaine assured me quickly. “Not in the best shape at the moment, but alive, thank Heaven.”

“What—what happened?” I asked, amazed my voice hadn’t forgotten how to work. “When did it happen?”

“Last night; there was a collision with another oncoming vehicle. Lucky for Mark he was slowing down to make a turn; had he been traveling any faster, he might have been much worse off. As it is, he’s suffered a severe concussion. He must have been terribly distracted or preoccupied about something; Mark is usually such a cautious driver, and I can’t imagine what might have taken him out at such a late hour.”

“What—what time was it?” I asked as felt horrible, sick sensation in pit of stomach that had nothing to do with acidic hangover.

“Around 11.00 last night,” said Elaine. Felt bottom drop entirely out of stomach as realized instantly what had happened; Mark had been so devastated by our conversation that he’d put down the phone and decided to race across town to my flat and explain everything, which would obvs only have done if were really, truly in love with me. Felt eyes stinging with tears and was afraid to speak in case burst into hysterical sobs. Fortunately, had time to compose self as Elaine Darcy was still speaking.

“I thought he’d mentioned he had to work last night, and I wondered if he might have been going round to see you afterward. Bridget, forgive me, but are you—I mean, is everything all right, between you and Mark?”

“Oh, yes, super!” I said in falsely cheery voice. “Just—you know—the usual things, nothing serious; no, really, everything’s fine.”

“Well, if you’re sure. . .” Elaine sounded thoroughly unconvinced.

“What am I going to do?” I whispered, hot tears spilling over my cheeks. Still couldn’t explain Bloody Rebecca attempting to wind herself around Mark in manner of giant squid or similar, but cannot believe have allowed self to be blinded by jealousy instead of trusting own boyfriend and own heart.

“Bridget? Perhaps we’ve got a bad connection.”

“Thank you,” I amended quickly. “For letting me know, I mean. So Mark, he hasn’t actually told you where he was going?”

“Well. . .” Elaine hesitated. “He isn’t exactly—he’s not quite himself; a bit disoriented, but it will pass. That’s really the reason I’m calling. I couldn’t ring sooner, and I wanted to be certain he was stable; I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily, but now that he’s awake, I think it would be good for him to see you.”

“Oh,” I said, thinking I’d be lucky if Mark Darcy ever wanted to inhabit the same continent, let alone the same room as me ever again. “Of course, if you think—but I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

“Don’t be silly, dear. I think—I think it will help.”  
“Right,” I said. “Well, I’ll come round as soon as I can.”

Have nagging suspicion Elaine isn’t telling me something; Mark didn’t ask to see me. She said she thought it would do him good to see me, and yet where could he have been on his way to last night, if not here? Unless—gah, no! Can think of no earthly reason why Mark would have gone to Rebecca when obvs had nothing on his mind except confessing undying love for self. Oh God, obvious now Mark Darcy truly loves me, so am entirely to blame for what happened to him. Suddenly imagining him lying comatose in hospital bed, swathed in bandages up to his eyes in manner of mummy like dramatic television soap opera, connected to plastic tubes and whirring machines like robot or similar. Gah! Horrible thought! What if he dies, and is all self’s fault? Will be branded murderer and have no hope of clearing own name because will have killed greatest legal brain in all of England, accidentally, obvs. Am not premeditated killer. Is true might have been responsible for fact that ranty feminist tirade that broke Mark Darcy’s heart will have been last thing he ever heard, but is not as if am completely without conscience. Right. Being ridiculous and irrational. Elaine clearly said Mark is stable and awake. Must pull self together and be caring, compassionate tower of strength, exuding vibes of healing and calm like Florence Nightingale-type person. Going to get dressed. Hmm, what does one wear to hospital to visit boyfriend whom have possibly chucked and almost accidentally killed?

* * *

#### Mark, Several Hours Earlier

The blinding light that seared his vision when he awoke nearly forced his eyes shut again. One word pierced the fog that swirled at the edges of his brain: pain. The jackhammer pounding mercilessly against the inside of his skull seemed to offer some explanation for his sense of disorientation, though not what had caused it. The whir of machinery, rushing footsteps, and the murmur of urgent voices suggested to him that he was in a hospital, but why? How had he come to be here?

“Mark?” A voice suddenly drifted through the fog, somewhere to his right; glancing around, he observed no one else in the room save the older woman seated beside his bed. The voice had clearly belonged to her, and she must, he concluded, have been speaking to him. Only then did he realize, with a jolt of panic that made his head throb if possible even harder, that he hadn’t recognized his own name, presuming the woman was addressing him; he hadn’t the faintest idea who she was either, come to think of it.

Apparently recognizing his distress, she rested her hand atop his. “it’s all right, dear. You’re going to be all right. You might feel a bit disoriented for a while, but don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, not wanting to appear rude while at the same time registering the absurdity of the need to observe polite formalities under the current circumstances. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, “but I’m afraid I don’t—that is, I’m not sure. . . who you are, precisely?”

The woman offered him a brave smile, eyes glistening. “It’s Mother, dear.” Mark averted his own eyes, his insides squirming uncomfortably. “don’t be embarrassed,” she soothed. “I’m just glad to have you alive.” Mark frowned, struggling to push the dense fog to the edges of his brain, and yet the harder he tried to concentrate, the more thickly it seemed to congeal around him. He supposed, as long as this woman was here, he might as well try to extract some information from her.

“Where am I? What’s happened?”

“You’re in a hospital, Mark,” the woman explained gently. “You’ve been in an accident. Late last night, you were—well, we’re not certain, but you seemed to be on your way to see Bridget.”

“Bridget?” he repeated confusedly.

“Your girlfriend, dear,” explained the woman. “You don’t remember?”

“No,” said Mark, suddenly beginning to feel fear churning in the pit of his stomach. Thinking of the name again, something shifted in his brain, as if a small space had cleared in the dense fog, but when he tried to peer through it, the mist reformed itself. “I can’t—I don’t—I don’t understand. This is ridiculous!” In his agitation, he struggled to sit up, but the woman placed a gently restraining hand on his shoulder that he might have attempted to fight had the nauseating cocktail of panic and pain swirling inside him not begun to pool sickeningly in the back of his throat.

“Mark, listen to me.” The woman spoke kindly but firmly, her hand still resting on his shoulder as she looked directly into his eyes. “You’re all right. I promise. You need to try not to excite yourself. It’s natural to feel frightened; you’ve been through a terrible ordeal.”

“That’s putting it mildly,” said Mark. “With all due respect, I have absolutely no idea who I am, or who you are, or how I came to be here; I have no way at the moment of verifying anything you’ve just said, and. . .” He broke off as he caught sight of the woman’s smile.

“There,” she said, giving his hand another pat. “That’s my Mark. Your barrister instincts are kicking in.”

“My. . . what? Right, look, this is all—I can’t even—none of this. . .” The threatening wave of nausea suddenly took fierce hold of him, and reflexively the woman rose and moved closer, her hands warm and soft against the back of his head as he succumbed to it.

“It’s all right, Mark,” she murmured. “It’s all right. You’ll feel better in a moment.” At last, when the retching subsided, Mark slumped back against his pillows, closing his eyes and struggling to control his breathing. He felt the woman’s hands again, brushing her fingertips across his brow before she bent to kiss the top of his head.

“Thank you,” he said feebly. Opening his eyes and meeting her gaze, he saw such tenderness in her expression that he couldn’t help trusting her, and the flicker of gratitude he experienced seemed a poor substitute for the love he supposed he should have felt toward her. The woman—he supposed he ought to think of her as his mother, if indeed she was his mother—seemed to read his thoughts and, leaning down, gently wrapped him in her arms.

“It’s going to be all right, Mark,” she whispered. “I know this is frightening, but you’re going to have all the support we can give you, and there are things we can do to bring back your memories; surround you with familiar people and routines, tell you stories, look at photographs. Your life isn’t irretrievable, but none of that matters right now. What matters is that you’re alive. The rest we can deal with a little at a time, and we will. We’ll conquer this, Mark. We will. I promise.” As he rested his head against her breast, Mark felt his eyes begin to moisten, whether from pain, or fear, or the inexplicable comfort he found in inhaling her scent, he couldn’t tell. His only coherent thought at this precise moment was that she was real; she was the one solid thing at the center of this swirling mist of confusion to which he could cling, so cling he did.

After several minutes, his mother drew back, hastily brushing away a tear. “Well,” she said brusquely, “first things first; why don’t I go find your father? He’s here too. I think he’s just gone to speak to the doctor. Of course, if you’re tired. . .” she hesitated.

“Might as well start getting reacquainted now,” said Mark. “I’ll have to eventually, and I’m certainly not going anywhere in the foreseeable future.”

His mother patted his cheek. “Right. Well, I’ll be back in a few minutes. You just rest.”

* * *

#### Bridget, 9.00 PM

Have just had most awkward encounter with Mark Darcy in history of our relationship, including turkey curry buffet conversation about feminist treatises in which he was wearing geriatric diamond-patterned sweater and bumblebee socks. Arrived at hospital to find Elaine sitting at Mark’s bedside, speaking in low, soothing voice as if he were frightened bunny rabbit or similar. With the exception of an apparently sutured area of his forehead, he seemed free from mummy-like bandages, which saw as promising sign of recovery. There was some bruising visible and a cut across one cheek, but he was beautifully, miraculously alive, which was all that mattered, obvs. 

Elaine rose when she saw me, smiling and coming forward to peck my cheek. “It’s so good to see you, dear. I’m glad you came.”

“Of course,” I said; then, for lack of anything else to say, I glanced round at Mark. Knew instantly something was wrong. His eyes—those beautiful, sober, intelligent brown eyes that always made my knees week and my loins melt—were gazing at the room without appearing to take anything in.

“Mark?” Elaine said gently, resting a hand on his shoulder. “Mark, you have a visitor.”

“Hi, Mark,” I squeaked. “It’s me; it’s me, um, you know, Bridget.”

Mark shifted his gaze in my direction, frowning in concentration before shaking his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid—that is, you’ll forgive me if I don’t recognize you.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” I gabbled. “Don’t worry. I just wanted to pop round, see how you’re doing after your accident; see if, um, there’s anything I can do.”

Mark offered me a weak attempt at a smile. “That’s very kind of you.” Felt knots of guilt and confusion rising in stomach and was just on the point of asking Elaine what the fuck was going on when a doctor entered.

“Ah, Mark. Wide awake. Excellent. Dr. Bennet,” he added, resting a comforting hand on Mark’s shoulder. “We spoke this morning. Do you remember?”

Mark nodded. “Yes.”

Dr. Bennet offered an encouraging smile. “Wonderful. That’s a good sign.” He launched into a series of routine questions, asking Mark if he knew where he was; why he was there; what day it was; how old he was; Mark answered all questions correctly, obvs, because Mark Darcy always has to be top at everything. “Right. Have you been able to recall anything else since you woke? Memories of your accident, for instance?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” murmured Mark, a flicker of fear in his eyes.

“That’s not uncommon,” Dr. Bennet assured him, taking the seat beside the bed. “I’ll be able to speak more precisely once we’ve done an MRI, but generally, we call what you’re experiencing retrograde amnesia. It means you’ve lost certain memories from the period before your accident, though you seem to have retained some basic personal information, and you can retain new memories, which is promising. It will help to relieve some of your disorientation, for one thing, if you can remember names and faces, and you can build on that.”

“Will I. . .” Mark hesitated, and before I had time to think, I move to his side and reached for his hand. Eyes still fixed on the doctor, Mark’s fingers seemed to find mine instinctively. “Will any of my memories return?”

Dr. Bennet sighed, but the gray eyes behind his spectacles held a kind, understanding expression. “this type of memory loss is usually temporary, but there’s no way of telling how long it might linger; you might begin to regain it in a few hours, or it might take days, possibly weeks. Unfortunately, stress and trauma-induced brain injuries are quite unpredictable. I’d like to tell you that you’ll be as good as new tomorrow, but I think cautious optimism is our best way forward at present. Still, you’re healthy, and you seem to have plenty of support,” he added, his eyes twinkling as they settled on me. Felt certain that once Mark did remember me, he’d wish he couldn’t, especially since is all my fault he’s in this mess in the first place.

Elaine placed a hand on my arm as the doctor began to examine Mark, shining lights in his eyes and making notations. “We’ll just step into the hall,” she said, “so we won’t be in your way.”

“Oh my God,” I said once we were out of earshot. “What’s wrong? What’s happened to him?”

“I’m so sorry, Bridget,” murmured Elaine, cradling my hand in both of hers. “I tried to tell you when I rang earlier, but I didn’t know how to explain. I know it’s a shock to see him like this.”

“Is he—I mean, does he remember anything?” I asked.

“Well, he doesn’t remember the accident at all, which isn’t uncommon; when he first came round, he didn’t seem to have any memories at all; he didn’t know who he was, and he didn’t recognize me or Malcolm. Some of that’s started to trickle back, fortunately, but most things are a blank.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” I whispered.

“Well, he’s alive, thank Heaven, and as the doctor said, this form of amnesia is usually temporary. If we surround him with familiar things, talk to him, try to jog his memory, he might get it back. I’m hopeful he shall; Mark—Mark has such a strong mind.”

“This is all my fault!” I exclaimed, and all at once I dissolved into tears and found self sobbing against Elaine’s shoulder as she wrapped me in her arms.

“You poor dear,” she murmured. “Of course this isn’t your fault. Whatever happened between the two of you, you aren’t responsible for Mark’s actions. I’m sure he wouldn’t think that.”

“I knew we shouldn’t have gone to that stupid house-party!” I cried.

“There now; we can’t dwell on the ‘what ifs’. Mark needs you, Bridget.”

“He doesn’t!” I sobbed. “He doesn’t need me; he doesn’t even want me! It’s bloody Rebecca he wants!”

“Hmm. I wonder—suppose you tell me who--” but just at that moment, with a swish of hair and a whiff of perfume, Rebecca appeared at opposite end of the hallway, radiating warmth in manner of Glinda the Good Witch or similar.

“I came as soon as I heard!” she exclaimed breathily, extending one perfectly-manicured hand. “You must be Mark’s mother; we haven’t been formally introduced, but of course, we’ve only just--”

“Rebecca,” I interrupted before I could stop myself, “what are you doing here?”

“Bridget!” she exclaimed. “I had no idea! Dear girl, it’s so lovely to see you!” Then apparently remembering that we were standing in a corridor outside a hospital room in which Mark was lying without the faintest idea who he or any of us were, she gazed at me, wide-eyed with concern. “I mean, it’s so lovely that you’re here,” she amended, taking my hand in manner of bereaved widow as if we were standing at the side of Mark’s coffin—gah! Why did self think such a thing? “It’s so sweet of you,” she simpered. “But then, you’ve always been such a good friend to Mark. How is he?” she added, turning back to Elaine.

Elaine pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes at Rebecca before responding. “I’m not certain he’s up to more visitors today,” she said coolly, “though it’s certainly kind of you to come. I’m sorry, but I don’t think you’ve told me how you’re acquainted with my son.”

Rebecca hesitated, glancing at me. “Oh, Bridget brought us together, didn’t you, Bridget?”

“Inadvertently,” I mumbled.

“I see,” replied Elaine, arching a brow in my direction. “Well, the doctor is in with Mark now; I suppose, if he’s feeling equal to it, you can pop in for a few minutes, but I should warn you he’s still extremely disoriented.” Before Rebecca could respond, Dr. Bennet emerged into the hallway.

“Everything is in order, Mrs Darcy,” he said to Elaine with another reassuring smile. “We’ll need to check on him every hour or so, and I’d like to keep him under observation for another 24 hours, but if he remains stable, we’ll be able to send him home tomorrow as long as he’ll have good care.”

“Of course, Doctor,” said Elaine. “I can’t thank you enough for your patience.”

“Not at all,” Dr. Bennet replied warmly. “I can appreciate how unsettling this must be, for you and especially for Mark. I wish I had a more definitive prognosis for you, but as I said, time is most often the best healer in these situations. The brain is a complex piece of human machinery.”

“Especially Marks,” I said before I could help myself, and I had to fight back a giggle as Elaine’s eyes met mine in silent understanding.

“That’s it, my dear,” chuckled the doctor. “A positive sense of humor will work wonders.”

Elaine thanked him as he strode off down the hall before turning to Rebecca. “Well, I suppose it couldn’t hurt if you popped in to just say hello.” I hesitated when Rebecca made to enter Mark’s room, torn between discomfort and curiosity to see how Mark would receive her. Elaine decided the matter by placing a hand on my back. “Go on, dear,” she urged, clearly taking the situation in stride in manner of army general or super hero or similar, though suspect she was as curious as I was to gage the temperature of Mark’s reception of Rebecca.

Rebecca rushed instantly to his side and grasped both of his hands in hers as she swooped down to peck his cheek. “Mark, I came as soon as I heard. How are you feeling?”

“I’m not precisely at my best, as you can probably imagine,” Mark replied coolly. Couldn’t help observing as I watched their exchange that he was regarding Rebecca with the merest flicker of suspicion in his eyes and allowed self to revel in moment of smug satisfaction at the expression of polite curiosity with which he’d greeted me. True, it was a far cry from smoldering, passionate, set-my-knickers-on-fire gaze that have grown accustomed to receiving from Mark Darcy, but at least am not object of suspicion. Have decided to view as promising sign.

Mark made as if to continue speaking, probably to ask Rebecca what planet she’d splashed down from, but she simpered on without taking any notice. “Of course, you poor darling! Such a dreadful thing to happen, but don’t you worry; I’m here for you, and we’ll have you feeling as good as new again before long."

Mark frowned, brows drawn together as he considered Rebecca. Even in his confused state, I could see the struggle taking place in his mind as a myriad of micro-expressions flitted across his face. “I don’t mean to be rude,” he said finally, “but I haven’t the faintest idea who you are.” His gaze shifted in my direction, and felt sweeping, slightly nauseating sensation of mingled hope and confusion as he seemed to seek reassurance from me. Would have been perfect moment to thwart Rebecca’s evil plot to steal self’s boyfriend, and yet also seemed emotionally manipulative to take advantage of Mark under current circumstances. Fortunately, Elaine spared me answering, calmly stepping in again and taking hold of the conversation.

“Go on, dear,” she said, offering Rebecca an encouraging smile. “It’s all right. Just talk to him; help him to remember.”

“Oh, well. . .” Rebecca hesitated, glanced at me, then turned back to Mark and gabbled on about how they met at Barky Thompson’s drinks party; about running into each other in New York; the apparently chance meeting on our Valentine’s Day minibreak, constructing entire thing like series of fate-designed path-crossings destined to unite them. Before she’d even got to the weekend house-party, Mark’s expression had gone from one of mild confusion to utter bewilderment.

Apparently realizing that he hadn’t a clue about any of it, Rebecca smiled and patted his hand. “don’t you worry,” she soothed. “None of that matters now anyway.”

Suddenly could no longer bear to stand there and watch Rebecca coddling Mark as if he were a helpless infant or injured puppy or similar. “Um, well,” I said, “I should probably be off; don’t want to outstay my welcome.”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” cooed Rebecca. “You’re not in the way at all, is she, Mark?”

Mark gave me a tentative smile. “It was very kind of you to stop by,” he said. “I expect we’ll be seeing each other again soon.”

Felt enormous, overwhelming rush of love for Mark and wanted to fling my arms around him and apologize for everything, but settled instead for returning his smile. “Of course. You take care of yourself. Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” I added to Elaine as I turned toward the door, fighting back tears.

“Bridget?” Elaine followed me into the hall and turned to face me, lips pursed, hands on hips. “Bridget, what’s going on?” I hesitated. “Bridget, dear, whatever it is, you can tell me. I know you feel like your mother and I have, well, prodded you and Mark toward each other, but really, if things aren’t going well for the two of you. . .”

“They were,” I whispered, “at first, but then it all just sort of—well—I don’t know!” And before I knew it, was sobbing out entire story about Rebecca, from Mark telling me about casually bumping into her to the horrible weekend house-party and my suspicions about Rebecca trying to lure Mark away from me. “I’ve just been so stupid! If I’d just listened to Mark—if I’d just trusted him, none of this would have happened. This is all my fault!”

“Oh, Bridget, of course it isn’t your fault,” murmured Elaine, pulling me into a tight hug. “You and Mark had a misunderstanding. You said things you regret, certainly, but you’re not responsible for Mark’s actions or the way he chose to handle the situation.”

“So you don’t—you don’t blame me then?” I asked, hiccupping.

Elaine smiled. “Bridget, I love my son. He’s an extremely intelligent man, but he’s still a man, and like most men, he can be astonishingly ignorant in matters of the heart.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “When I asked him if he thought we should split up, he seemed so. . . conflicted. Wouldn’t he be sure, if he really cared for me?”

“Perhaps,” Elaine mused, “he wasn’t sure of your feelings. I don’t want to pry, and perhaps it’s not my place to ask, but what precisely happened—when Mark confronted you about the. . . incident in the dining-room,” she finished delicately. Cannot believe told Elaine about being groped by marijuana-addled whippersnapper (must have been mad; brain obviously traumatized by shock of Mark’s accident, but really, best to be completely honest so can show self in best possible light). 

“I tried to explain what happened to Mark afterward, and he didn’t seem to believe me at first, but then in the middle of arguing we both looked at each other and realized how absurd the whole thing was, and we just started giggling and, well. . .” Gestured vaguely to punctuate sentence as did not want to reveal details of sexual relations with Mark Darcy to Mark Darcy’s mother, even though obvs sex perfectly natural between consenting adults. Besides, Elaine Darcy is v worldly, modern-thinking woman, and cannot be nun living in convent as had to have sex to bring Mark into this world in first place. (Gah! Why did self just think that? Why! Why!) Fortunately, Elaine just nodded sagely and motioned for me to continue. “So, um, in the morning, I really thought everything was fine, that we’d sorted out the whole misunderstanding, but Mark just looked really upset. I asked him if he’d told Rebecca that we were in the process of splitting up, and he said he hadn’t, but that maybe we should—I don’t know. He seemed to be on the point of saying that maybe we should think about splitting.”

“But he didn’t actually say that?”

“Not exactly; I mean, he seemed about to say something, but then Rebecca came in and called us down to breakfast.”

“How convenient,” said Elaine.

“Well, yes, but the thing is, whatever Rebecca’s hand is in all of this, if Mark really fancies her. . .”

“Bridget, is that what you think?”

“I don’t know what to think!” I cried.

Elaine studied me for a moment, a crease between her brows that reminded me so much of Mark I nearly burst into tears again; finally, she said, “Look, Bridget, I can’t presume to know Mark’s heart; you’re nothing like any of the women he’s been with in the past, and I don’t mean that as a criticism. The fact that you can stand here in the midst of all of this, when you have every right to be frustrated with him for not taking your concerns seriously, and yet still care more for his own feelings, shows just what a caring, honest person you are. You’re not in this relationship for personal gain or professional prestige; you honestly care for Mark and want him to be happy.” I nodded. “As I said, I can’t presume to know Mark’s heart; all I know is what I see, and let me tell you what I see.” She paused to gather her composure as she looked at me with moist eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mark smile as much as he does when he’s with you.”

Felt own eyes filling with tears again. “Really?”

“Really.” 

Smiled genuinely for first time all day as Elaine wrapped me in her arms. “so what about Rebecca?” I asked, wiping my eyes on the back of my hand.

Elaine patted my cheek. “I think I have a plan.”

* * *

Entire way home kept wondering how Rebecca even knew about Mark’s accident; hardly anyone outside the family knows yet. Even Mark’s colleagues in chambers, apart from Jeremy, haven’t been told, and Elaine’s been miraculously efficient about keeping the information from spreading through the rapid-fire communication system of the Grafton Underwood grapevine. Once Mum and Una find out, Mark will be glad he can’t remember anything; suspect he might want to permanently delete vision of them swooping around him like elderly bats, offering casseroles and maternal advice in equally overwhelming dollops. Thought would just ring Shaz when got home as had quickly contacted urban family after speaking to Elaine to give them the news.

“What?” bellowed Shaz. “Rebecca turned up at the hospital? Was she fucking out of her fucking mind?”

“Well, it’s hardly surprising,” I pointed out. “I mean, if she were ever going to make a play for Mark, now would be the time to do it; he doesn’t even remember he was with me in the first place before he met Rebecca, and she’s not the sort of person to care about manipulating his emotions and taking advantage of his vulnerability if she can get her feet under the table, but how did she even know about the accident?”

“Well. . .” Long pause followed.

“Shaz?”

Heard her take a deep breath before saying, “Okay, look, I might have sort of, um, told her.”

“You what?” wanted to reach through the phone and strangle her. “Shaz, are you mad? What were you thinking--”

“Bridge, hang on. Let me just--”

“It was bad enough seeing Mark and knowing I’m partially responsible for what happened without Rebecca flouncing in with her swishy hair and her long legs and her--”

“Bridge, will you fucking shut up and let me explain? First of all, this isn’t your fault; if anything, it’s Mark’s fault for being so completely fucking clueless, but mostly, it’s Rebecca’s fault for trying to pinch other people’s boyfriends in the first place. Anyway, after you rang to tell me about Mark’s accident, I got really pissed at Rebecca; you and Mark were perfectly happy. Everything was going along just fine until she started swimming round you sticking her jellyfishing tentacles into Mark, trying to hook him for herself. Honestly, Bridge, I don’t even know why you’re friends with her; a real friend wouldn’t have done that to you. If she’d just left well enough alone, Mark would probably be at your flat right now, drunk on sex instead of morphine.”

“She’s not really a friend,” I protested. “She just always seems to turn up at 192 with us.”

“Right, fuck that. She needs to get her own life and her own friends and her own boyfriend instead of jellyfishing everyone else’s.”

“Sharon,” I said v slowly and patiently as if speaking to an over-excited toddler, “what is your point?”

“Well,” explained Shaz, “I called her and, um, gave her a bit of an earful about what happened to Mark being her fault, and I guess she thought she’d try to seize the opportunity and move in on him again.” There was a long pause; then she said, “Listen, Bridget, I know I’ve said a lot of things about Mark being an arrogant, controlling workaholic with a poker shoved up his arse, and I meant every word.”

“You also said he was gay,” I added.

“Yes, well, I was drunk; that doesn’t count, and that’s not the point. The point is, in spite of all of those things, I think—I think he might really be in love with you, Bridge.”

“You really think so?” I asked.

“I do,” said Sharon. “So if you feel the same about him--”

“I do.”

“Then get off the fucking phone and go win him back from bloody Rebecca!”

Sharon is right; cannot let horrible jellyfishing backstabber interfere with self’s happiness. Really love the lovely friends.


	2. Now They Were Strangers

> I will not allow it to be more man’s nature than woman’s to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. Jane Austen, Persuasion

#### Elaine, Saturday 8 March

Elaine Darcy sat wearily resting her cheek on her hand as she watched slivers of early morning light filter through the curtains and play across her son’s face. It seemed the first moment she’d had to reflect on all that had occurred since last weekend; after Mark’s release from hospital, Malcolm and Elaine had remained in London to see him settled and determine the best course of action for his recovery. They’d initially discussed removing him to Grafton Underwood to stay with them, but Mark seemed comfortable at present, and as London was his home now, he might be more likely to regain his memories if he were surrounded by the familiar objects and routines of his daily life. Malcolm had stayed only long enough to assure himself that Mark was comfortably situated before returning home, while Elaine had elected to remain with her son for as long as necessary. 

Now, in sleep, the lines of fear and tension that cluttered his features had receded, leaving his expression peaceful and untroubled. Despite her own exhaustion, Elaine found solace in the quiet, watching Mark, reaching to smooth the bed-covers or brush the hair back from his forehead. Somehow every gesture felt like an act of atonement; in moments of crisis, or when Mark displayed any weakness or vulnerability, Elaine found herself reflecting on the single lingering regret she held regarding his upbringing. She had wondered—indeed had fretted over how he would thrive in the competitive, rough-and-tumble world of the boarding-school, where children went in wild, unruly boys and emerged straight-backed, stiff upper-lipped Englishmen. Elaine Darcy had always been rather stoic, but her heart melted every time she looked at her son—her shy, quiet boy who could spend hours lying in the grass staring up at the clouds. She hadn’t wanted to send him away, but the admiral had been firm; Darcy men went to Eton. Eton would give Mark structure; build his backbone; give him the best life-training, and Elaine had wanted the best for her son. Mark had grown into a strong, capable, intelligent man. The shyness he had exhibited as a boy had settled into a cool, sometimes impenetrable reserve, and Elaine often wondered if that reserve masked a need for the tenderness that had been so absent from much of his relationship with his parents. Well, she was certainly making up for that now Elaine thought as she sat watching over her son.

Sighing, she reached over and gently adjusted the duvet; Mark stirred, turned onto his side, mumbled something unintelligible, and dropped off to sleep again. Elaine was just on the point of slipping away to make a cup of tea when she heard movement again, and his eyes opened. He blinked when he saw her sitting beside his bed, sleep and confusion clouding his features until a slow smile crept across his face.

“Mother.”

“Morning, dear.” Elaine leaned in to kiss his forehead. “How are you feeling?”

Mark propped himself against his pillows and scrubbed his hands over his face. “I don’t know. Everything is still so. . . strange. When I wake up, I feel like I’ve been dropped into the middle of a story where I don’t know any of the characters or what’s happening.”

“Well, you’ve had a good sleep; that’s bound to clear your mind a bit.” In fact, last night had been the first restful one Mark had had since arriving home—the first night he hadn’t woken at intervals, panicked and disoriented, hence Elaine’s precaution to keep vigil at his bedside. When Mark remained silent, Elaine reached for his hand. “Mark,” she said gently, “you’re doing fine. I know you might not feel that way, but really, you are; you’ve retained everything we’ve told you since the accident, so whatever new memories you’re able to hold onto, we can build on that.”

Mark sighed. “That’s not the point. I hear everything you’re telling me, and I’m trying desperately to piece it all together. I want to rebuild my life, but how can I do that when I haven’t got a clue where any of the pieces fit?”

“You will, dear,” Elaine reassured him.

“You can’t know that,” Mark said abruptly.

“No, perhaps not,” she agreed, “but I have hope.”

Mark sat still for several moments, frowning, apparently in deep concentration. Finally, he said, “Mother, there’s something I don’t understand.”

“What is it?”

“Well. . .” He hesitated, the look of intense concentration in his eyes replaced with a vague, unfocused expression, as if he were gazing at something he alone could see. “Bridget,” he said finally.

“What about her?” Elaine prompted.

“Well, it’s just, you told me—I thought we were supposed to be in a relationship.”

Elaine nodded. “You are; at least you were, as far as I’m aware.” She paused, wondering how far to proceed. “Truthfully, I don’t know much more than you do, I’m afraid. Something happened between you that night—the night of the accident. You argued, I think, but from all I’ve made out, you wanted to patch things up.”

“but if that’s true, how does. . . I can’t think of her name.”

“Rebecca?” Elaine supplied.

“Yes,” said Mark. “If you hadn’t told me about Bridget, I’d have thought—at least, Rebecca—the way she behaved—it was so. . . forward—assertive—I don’t know.” Elaine suspected that the word hovering on the tip of his tongue was ‘presumptuous,’ but she didn’t want to insert more of her own subjectivity into the recovery of his memories than absolutely necessary. “Bridget,” Mark continued, “she was terribly sweet, but she seemed so shy. I suppose it was natural under the circumstances, but I had this vague impression—and of course I could be misinterpreting it—that she felt as if she didn’t belong, and Rebecca just breezed in as if she knew her place. Where does she fit in all of this?” Elaine turned his question over in her mind, recalling everything Bridget had related to her at the hospital. She suspected—and deeply hoped, if she were being honest with herself—that whatever misunderstanding had occurred between her son and Bridget, they could come to a reconciliation. The current circumstances, however, certainly complicated matters; Elaine couldn’t reconstruct Mark’s relationship with Bridget based on her own hopes and assumptions; however much she believed they were in love with each other, Bridget’s caution, given Mark’s condition, seemed sensible. He needed to rebuild his life, and he needed to decide what role Bridget would play in that life.

“I can’t answer your question, I’m afraid,” she said, “but I think I have a way to find out.”

* * *

Elaine smiled as she glanced through the windows before opening the front door and gesturing Bridget inside.

“I’m so glad to see you, Bridget,” she said, leaning in to hug her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t come round sooner; I know I should have,” Bridget replied, tentatively returning Elaine’s smile. “I just thought Mark might want some time to settle in, and I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Nonsense, dear. He’ll be delighted to see you again; he could do with cheering up."

“Is he. . .” Bridget hesitated.

Elaine sighed, motioning Bridget to follow her. “There’s been no change, I’m afraid, but it’s only a matter of time,” she said with a note of confidence in her voice that she wished she felt. “The results of his MRI didn’t show any abnormalities, so the doctor thinks the memory loss is largely symptomatic of the trauma of the accident. Now we just wait. Time and hope are really all Mark needs now.” 

Mark rose from the sofa as Bridget appeared, and Elaine’s heart warmed at the flicker of recognition in his eyes as he spoke. “It’s Bridget, isn’t it?” Bridget’s own eyes shone at his words.

“Yes. I just thought I’d stop by and say hello, see how you’re doing.”

Mark smiled. “I’m glad you did,” he said, gesturing for her to sit before claiming the seat beside her.

“I’ll just leave you two to chat,” said Elaine, observing the pair of them with satisfaction. “Bridget, you’ll join us for lunch, won’t you?”

“Oh, well. . .” Bridget paused. “I—of course, if it’s not too much trouble.”

“Not at all,” Elaine assured her. As she slipped from the room, she couldn’t help noting how Mark’s shoulders began to relax and the tension in his jaw melted away, and she dared to entertain the first real glimmer of hope she’d felt in the days since the accident.

* * *

“You can’t be serious!” Mark managed between bursts of the first laugh that had escaped him in over a week. At his request, Bridget had regaled him with the story of their relationship’s inception, beginning with an apparently awkward encounter on New Year’s Day and culminating in his single-handed saving of the fortunes of both Bridget’s and his parents when the man Pam Jones had—taken up with, to put it delicately—had used her as a front for a timeshare scam. “He didn’t really show up at your parents’ house like that, on Christmas Day?” Mark declared incredulously, still laughing when Bridget described Julio barging into the Jones’s home, drunk and disheveled, enraged at the thought of ‘his woman’ sharing a bed with her own husband.

“He did,” Bridget giggled. “And then you just took command of the situation and announced in front of everyone that you were taking me away to celebrate the rest of the Baby Jesus’s birthday, and you whisked me off to Hintlesham Hall and. . .” Her voice trailed into silence, and the expression in her eyes turned soft and wistful as she relived the memory.

Watching a slow smile play at the corners of her mouth, Mark experienced a sudden, powerful urge to kiss her; instead he said, “I think that was quite possibly the most ridiculous and the most romantic story I’ve ever heard.”

“It is a bit ridiculous,” agreed Bridget, beginning to giggle again.

“I wish—I wish I could remember it,” he murmured.

“It’s okay,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. Then all at once, tears welled in her eyes, and she began to cry. Mark must, he realized after the fact, have reached for her, though he had no awareness of doing so; when he glanced down, however, he discovered his arms around her as she wept into his chest.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered helplessly into her hair as he cradled her against him. “I’m so, so sorry, Bridget.”

“What for?” she sniffled, tears still shimmering in her eyes as she lifted her head to meet his gaze.

“I don’t know,” he said. “but I’ve upset you. Please forgive me.” Despite the awkward circumstances, he reveled in her closeness, finding comfort at the way she curled herself so naturally into the crook of his arm.

“It’s not your fault,” Bridget said finally. “It’s mine. It seems pointless to rehash it now when you probably can’t even remember, but we argued the night of the accident. It all seems so ridiculous now; it was only, well, Rebecca—you’ve met Rebecca.”

Mark nodded. “I have met Rebecca. Quite a pretty girl, if I recall,” he added, smiling as Bridget glowered at him. “I thought that might stop you crying,” he said.

“Well, anyway,” Bridget continued, “I thought she was making a play for you and was plotting to get you for herself. We had quite a row about it, and I wish I could just take it all back. That was why you were coming round to see me that night, I think—to patch things up between us, and if we hadn’t argued, you’d never have—oh God, Mark, I’m so sorry!”

“Bridget.” Acting again on some instinct he seemed hardly to register, Mark cradled her face in his hands, brushing a tear from her cheek with the pad of his thumb. “Bridget, please don’t upset yourself on my account. This past week has been. . . rather overwhelming, to say the least.”

“I know,” she whispered. “And I want to help. I don’t know what I can do, if I can even do anything, but I want to be here for you, Mark. I want to get you through this, whatever ‘this’ is, however long it takes.”

“Well,” replied Mark, still absently stroking the edge of his thumb across her cheek, “there is something you can do, actually, and it would mean quite a lot to me.”

“Oh?” she asked, her eyes brightening. “What is it?”

“Please stop blaming yourself for any of this.”

“but Mark--” As Bridget began to protest, he laid a finger over her lips.

“Shh. Please, Bridget. Can you please do this for me? I think we’ve got quite enough of an ordeal on our hands without casting blame.”

Bridget sighed. “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed. “I still feel a bit guilty though.”

“I know, but your guilt won’t help the situation. Let’s just—well, I was going to say, ‘let’s just forget it,’” said Mark with a sad smile, “but I’ve already taken care of that, I think.”

“Oh, Mark!” Emitting a strangled noise halfway between a sob and a laugh, Bridget flung her arms around him in a fierce hug. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

“Well,” he said, returning her embrace, “you’ve certainly given me a good reason to try.”

* * *

#### Mark, Sunday 9 March

When Mark opened his eyes, he lay still for several minutes, endeavoring, as he had each morning since his accident, to relax his mind and pull his surroundings into clear focus. He couldn’t at first pinpoint what felt different this morning as he gathered his thoughts about him, until he realized that he was smiling. After turning onto his side and stretching his limns luxuriantly, he threw back the covers and slid from bed, crossing to the window to peer through the curtains at the wintery sunshine that greeted him. For the first time since he had woken up to find himself in this predicament, Mark felt the knots of tension in his muscles beginning to unravel. He might not have his past, he thought, but he had his future—a future that since yesterday seemed somewhat less bleak. 

“Well, look who it is,” said Elaine when Mark entered the kitchen, showered and dressed comfortably in jeans and a sweater. She leaned in to peck his cheek; then pulled back to examine his face, brows drawn together. “You look well-rested,” she observed, “and more like yourself. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” said Mark, pouring himself a cup of coffee and taking a seat at the island across from his mother. “I can’t precisely pinpoint it, but I do feel a bit better.”

“You look more cheerful,” said Elaine. “I wonder,” she smiled, eyes twinkling, “did you enjoy spending time with Bridget yesterday?”

Mark nodded. “I did, very much. She’s—well, she seems very brave. I can imagine this must all be uncomfortable and confusing for her, but she seems to have taken everything in as well as anyone might expect her to. She has—I don’t know—a certain. . . inner poise.”

“She certainly has that,” Elaine agreed, “not that I want to influence you in any way,” she added.

“But that’s not going to stop you, I suspect,” Mark quipped.

Elaine laughed. “You know me too well.”

Mark leaned back in his seat, considering his mother’s words; if he was honest with himself, the shadows that had surrounded him for the past week seemed to be receding, and a flicker of warmth crept into his heart as he looked at the woman seated across from him. He felt less as if he were creeping his way through a dark tunnel, and he pondered, with cautious optimism, how much Bridget’s company yesterday had begun to shed light on the memories tucked away in the deep recesses of his mind. Elaine studied him intently, saying nothing, but her eyes softened as she reached for his hand and gave it a squeeze. The sudden, distant ring of the doorbell startled them both from their reverie.

“Who could that be?” wondered Elaine, standing and beginning to make her way from the kitchen. “Were you expecting anyone, dear?” she asked, casting Mark a wink. He shook his head; Bridget hadn’t mentioned when she’d come round again, though he certainly hoped she would. “Well, why don’t I go find out? You sit right there,” Elaine commanded, motioning for Mark to remain seated. He heard the murmur of voices, and after a moment’s hesitation, he decided to find out for himself the identity of his surprise visitor. He hadn’t realized how much he’d hoped to see Bridget again until he felt a twinge of disappointment to find Elaine in casual conversation not with her, but with the other woman who had visited him in hospital.

“Mark!” she exclaimed, her eyes bright with the smile she flashed him as she came forward. “I’m so glad to see you up and about. You look well.”

“Rebecca,” Mark said pleasantly, suddenly catching her name on the tip of his tongue as he extended a hand to shake hers.

“You look surprised to see me,” she said, taking both of his hands and leaning in to peck his cheek. Elaine stood watching the exchange with pursed lips before nodding to Mark and slipping from the room.

“Well, yes, I confess this is a surprise,” Mark admitted, smiling in spite of himself at Rebecca’s warm greeting. She seemed very much at ease in his presence, more so than Bridget, which he found puzzling in light of what Bridget had told him yesterday. Either there must have been some misunderstanding, or Rebecca lacked even the barest hint of a conscience. He preferred, under the circumstances, to think the former, though it certainly complicated his relationship status. He didn’t suppose either woman expected him to declare his intentions at the moment, but if he had been involved with either of them before his accident, Mark supposed his loyalty should tend in the direction of whomever it was, if he could work that out. His mother seemed to think it was Bridget; Bridget seemed to indicate the same, and if he could trust his own discernment in his current condition, he was inclined to agree that he’d certainly felt a spark between them, regardless of whatever misunderstanding had occurred. Yet he couldn’t deny that Rebecca’s kindness touched him, and he appreciated the opportunity to get to know her better, whatever the outcome.

“It’s kind of you to visit,” he said, gesturing her toward the sofa and taking the seat beside her.

“Of course I had to come. I’m sure you’ve had lots of company since you’ve been home.”

“well, no, as a matter of fact. I’m finding company in general rather overwhelming at the moment.”

“Oh.” Rebecca hesitated, glancing nervously away.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you coming,” Mark hastily reassured her. “that was unforgivably rude of me; I apologize.”

“Not at all,” laughed Rebecca, reaffixing her smile. “Everything must seem so strange still.” She gave his hand a consoling pat.

“It is,” Mark admitted, “but I can’t deny that the little company I’ve had has raised my spirits. I had quite an enjoyable visit with Bridget yesterday afternoon.”

“Really? How lovely!” Rebecca’s smile, Mark couldn’t help noticing, didn’t quite meet her eyes this time. “I’m glad she found the time to visit you; that was sweet of her, especially since—well, she’s very busy.”

Mark struggled to tamp down the inexplicable wave of irritation that rose in him at her words; he couldn’t very well defend Bridget when he hardly remembered her, but the note of barely concealed disdain in Rebecca’s tone disquieted him. “I suppose you must know Bridget rather well,” he ventured, endeavoring to grope his way through this tangled web of uncertainty for a thread of truth to which he might cling.

“I suppose so,” said Rebecca, “but truthfully I’ve not seen much of her lately. As I said, she’s terribly busy. She’s become quite glamorous since she started working in television. She’s got lots of friends; out every other night; I was shocked she agreed to come to my house-party—you remember—the one I told you about.” Mark nodded; he did remember, vaguely, and he wondered whether that had been where the misunderstanding had occurred. “Bridget told you she has a job in television, I suppose?” Rebecca inquired now.

“No, as a matter of fact she didn’t,” Mark replied. “She didn’t speak much about herself at all, really; she’s been, well, helping me to fill in the blank spots in my memory, and she’s taken on quite a project, I can tell you. It’s…” he hesitated, and that vague sense of nauseating disorientation crept over him again. “It’s utterly terrifying.” Rebecca slipped her hand into his, but Mark pulled away, more roughly than he’d intended perhaps. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do,” he confessed. “I don’t really know who I am, or anything about my life, and the worst of it is that I know it’s not just my life that’s been lost in all of this; it affects everyone whose life I’ve been a part of. I might not really remember who any of them are, but I still have this acute sense of how much they’re all grieving."

Rebecca took his hand again, and this time, he didn’t pull away. “Mark, look, I don’t know you very well, but I do know that you mean a lot to a lot of people. Of course they care; of course they want you to be well.”

“But that’s just it,” said Mark. “I don’t know who that man is, and I don’t feel as if I can be anything more than a shadow of him. Every time anyone looks at me, I know they’ll be trying to find traces of someone who’s not there.”

“You don’t know that,” murmured Rebecca. “You might remember; there’s still a chance you might remember.”

“Everyone wants me to remember, and believe me, no one wants that for me more than I do, but I can’t remember, and yet every time I think about trying to begin again—trying to just start life with a clean slate, I have this vague sense that I’m leaving something behind. I just don’t know what it is.”

Rebecca considered him for a moment; then said, “Well, maybe I can help you there. When I first found out about what happened, I thought how sad it was that you and I didn’t have a chance to get to know each other better before your accident, but maybe it’s better this way. I mean, I don’t have any expectations. Maybe the kind of support you need isn’t people buzzing around you trying to make you remember things you can’t, but just having someone here, someone to keep you company, make you comfortable and just, I don’t know, try to make this less frightening for you. I want to help you, Mark. I think I can help you, if you’ll let me.”

“Rebecca, I. . .” Mark swallowed, blinked, and suddenly turned from her, burying his face in his hands in an endeavor to hide the tears he could no longer suppress. After several moments, he felt Rebecca’s arms encircling him and, too weary to resist, he allowed her to pull his head to her breast. He allowed himself to sink into the warmth of her touch, to simply exist in the moment. He didn’t need to remember; there was nothing to remember. There was only now; only this woman who seemed all he could cling to, because she was all that seemed truly apart of his present instead of his past, and Mark had nothing but the present. What she had said, in a strange way, made sense; despite how much he’d enjoyed Bridget’s company, he hadn’t found himself able to release the tidal-waves of fear that had been engulfing him when he was with her, because he couldn’t bear the thought of placing a heavier burden of sadness on her than she already seemed to be carrying. Rebecca’s stake in this, whatever it was, was far less steeped in memory and history, and somehow mark found that knowledge liberating.

“I’m. . . sorry,” he croaked, his voice catching on the lump in his throat.

“Hush,” murmured Rebecca, smoothing back his hair and kissing the top of his head. “there now; you poor dear. It’s no wonder you’re upset, but it’s going to be all right. There now.” Under her caresses, Mark’s breathing began to slow; Rebecca continued stroking his head and murmuring reassuring words that lulled him into a doze, and when he could no longer resist the pull of his fatigue, he drifted into sleep.

* * *

#### Elaine

Elaine had decided that if Mark had any hope of recovering his memories, particularly of the events leading up to his accident, he couldn’t piece those events together without some assistance from Bridget and Rebecca; only they could offer him some explanation for whatever had prompted his presumed dash to Bridget’s flat with such disastrous consequences, so despite her reservations, she’d slipped away to give her son some privacy with Rebecca. Now she cautiously approached the living-room door, bearing a tray of tea and biscuits.

“Oh,” she murmured. Had her hands not been full, she might have pressed them to her heart. Rebecca sat on the sofa, one hand stroking Mark’s head, which rested on her shoulder; he seemed to have fallen fast asleep, and despite Elaine’s misgivings about Rebecca, she couldn’t deny that any kindness toward her son touched her.

“I thought I’d just see how you two were getting on,” she whispered, tiptoeing into the room and setting down the tray before reaching to brush the hair back from Mark’s forehead. “This has all been so exhausting for him,” she murmured. “I hope nothing’s upset him.”

Rebecca considered Elaine coolly. “I think,” she replied in a harsh whisper, “you mean to say that you hope I haven’t upset him.”

Elaine hesitated, casting a glance at Mark. “I don’t want to disturb him, and I’ve been hoping for a chance to speak with you privately. Might I suggest we move this conversation into the kitchen?” As she regathered the tea things, Rebecca gently disentangled herself from Mark, situating him more comfortably on the sofa and tucking a blanket around him before following Elaine from the room.

“Well,” said Elaine one she and Rebecca had seated themselves across from one another in the kitchen. “To answer your question, yes, I suppose that is my concern, and you can hardly blame me.”

“Whatever Bridget’s told you,” Rebecca began, but Elaine held up a hand to silence her.

“This has nothing to do with Bridget,” she replied calmly. “At least, not directly. Of course, the fact that Mark and Bridget seem to have hit a rough patch in their relationship before his accident does complicate matters, and I know Bridget seems to think you had a hand in whatever misunderstanding occurred between them, but right now, my only priority is my son and seeing him well and whole again. I’m sure you can appreciate what a vulnerable position he’s in right now.”

Rebecca nodded. “And you don’t want either of us—or me, more precisely—manipulating his emotions or fighting over him.”

“Not to put too fine a point on it, yes,” said Elaine. “I know Bridget, and I know she cares for Mark; I don’t know you, but that doesn’t mean you don’t have good intentions. If you know Mark at all, you know he’s an honorable man, and no accident on earth could shake that. I know that despite his. . . current circumstances, he feels honor-bound to remain loyal to whatever commitment he might have made, if he can trace his steps and his memory back to the most level patch of ground he was standing on before all of this threw him off-balance. I think unraveling that particular knot might clear a path forward for his recovery, but he can’t have his heart or his mind pulled in opposite directions.” Elaine paused, took a sip of tea to gather her thoughts, and then continued, “I suppose what I’m saying is that Mark is in a unique position to follow his heart instead of his honor; to do what he wants rather than what he thinks he has an obligation to do.”

“Look, Mrs Darcy,” said Rebecca, tossing back her hair and meeting Elaine’s gaze with a defiant stare, “I do care about Mark, and I think he cares about me, more than he realizes. Perhaps we haven’t known each other for very long, but I don’t believe it was a coincidence that our paths crossed when and how they did. I think he’s been struggling with his feelings for Bridget. If what you say is true—that he’s been given an opportunity to follow his heart instead of his obligations—then maybe I’m that chance. Besides, he and Bridget haven’t been together for very long; it’s not as if he’s made a commitment to her. I don’t see that he’s under any obligation, or honor-bound to her in any way.”

Elaine sighed. “That only proves how little you know my son. Mark doesn’t bestow his affections lightly; in fact, I’d venture to say that I don’t think he’s ever truly allowed himself to love anyone—until now, at least. If he’s invested any of himself in his relationship with Bridget, his conscience isn’t going to let him walk away without serious consideration. Still, you could very well be right.” She paused, then added softly, “I’m only asking one thing.” She met Rebecca’s gaze steadily. “Please treat him kindly. Whatever happens, I don’t want to see Mark hurt. He’s been through enough.”


	3. Devotion of the Heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I've mixed film and book universe references here; I couldn't resist, and I think you'll agree they work.

> A man does not recover from such devotion of the heart to such a woman! He ought not; he does not.- Jane Austen, Persuasion

#### Bridget, Friday 14 March

Weight: 8 st (hurrah! Miracle!)  
Calories: 925 (pre-dinner-date fast).  
Alcohol units: 3 (Excellent).  
Cigarettes: 3 (v.v.g).

#### 10.30 PM

Right. Inner poise. Must remind self that am calm, cool, woman of substance, but what possessed me to invite Mark Darcy to dinner tomorrow? He seems to be coming along quite well, actually; still doesn’t remember much of anything, but he’s got used to me popping over most evenings after work, and Elaine says he’s been much more cheerful—sleeping less and feeling more active. Rebecca’s made a few appearances too, apparently (bloody jellyfisher), and Mark does seem to enjoy her company. Still, is not as if he’s in his right mind; must forgive him, for he knows not what he does, or something. Am going to be gentle, magnanimous, healing Victorian angel-type person and use positive thought vibes to bring Mark’s memories back in manner of memory-whisperer. In fact, decided that Mark needed a change of scene and thought we might visit some of the spots where we’ve gone together to see if they stir up any memories.

“Oh, Bridget, what a lovely idea!” Elaine exclaimed when rang earlier to suggest it. “I’m sure Mark will enjoy that; he’s been cooped up for too long. He could do with a distraction. He’s right here. I’ll let you tell him about it yourself.”

“Oh, um, okay,” I murmured, suddenly feeling v self-conscious. Had just begun to think it might be best if Mark miraculously regained his memories and remembered he wanted to chuck me when heard his voice on the line.

“Hello, Bridget.”

“Oh, Mark! Hi!” I said brightly. “How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks. How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine. How are you?"

Mark chuckled. “We’ve had that, I think.”

“Oh, um, right.” Why must I always sound like inarticulate, single-celled organism when nervous? Why? Why?

“Well,” said Mark, “what can I do for you?” Suddenly felt tears stinging my eyes at that familiar note of calm in his voice—as if he could solve any problem that fell into his hands. Couldn’t decide if should be overjoyed that he seemed to be feeling better or alarmed that his slip into cool, professional, barrister mode meant he wanted to keep me at arms-length.

“Bridget? Is everything all right?”

“Super!” I chirped.

“Good. Was there something you wanted?” Mark prompted gently.

“Um, yes, actually,” I said, gathering my courage. “I was just thinking, maybe it would help your memory to have a change of scene, visit some familiar haunts. I wondered—maybe we could have dinner tomorrow—someplace we’ve been before.” Mark said nothing. “Of course, I’ll understand if you’d rather not,” I rambled on. “Maybe you’re not ready; I just thought—but perhaps it’s too much and--”

“I’d like that, Bridget,” he murmured.

“Really?” Felt huge flood of relief and gratitude for Mark taking my anxiousness so calmly in hand—just like he always does. Really, really love Mark.

“Yes. I can’t promise it will help, of course, but,” he paused, “I enjoy spending time with you.”

“Oh, well, great!” I said. “I’ll pick you up around 6.00, then?”

“That sounds perfect. I look forward to it.”

“Right. Well, until tomorrow, then,” I said.

“Until tomorrow. Good night, Bridget.”

“Good night, Mark.”  
Now must work on calm and inner poise; perhaps will decide on outfit in advance to avoid fashion emergencies resulting in lateness. Hmm, need to check laundry basket for knickers. Not that plan to have sex with Mark Darcy, but still cannot risk being seen in scary mummy pants horror.

* * *

#### Saturday 15 March

Weight: 12 st (feels like).  
Calories: 9000 (chiefly tiramisu).  
Alcohol units: 2 (virtuous self-restraint).  
Cigarettes: 2 (specifically to calm nerves, as promised Mark would give up. Still, think promise made void by fact that Mark probably has no memory of extracting said promise from me).  
Snogs: 2 (excellent!)  
Boyfriends: Still inconclusive, though snogging suggests possible improvement in relationship status.  
Awkward situations diffused: 1 (Hurrah! Am conflict-resolver extraordinaire!)

#### 11.45 PM

Oh my bloody God and fuck. Cannot believe what has just happened. Romantic stroll down memory lane with Mark actually started out b lovely despite minor fashion crisis over decision about what to wear. Obvs wanted to look nice for Mark, but didn’t want to convey wrong impression as was not a date and did not want to place undue pressure on him. After emptying contents of entire wardrobe onto the bed, discarding several dresses and miniskirts, and untangling a pair of tights only to discover enormous hole in knee the size of small country, decided on “dressy casual”—a pair of jeans and a light blue, silk blouse with neckline low enough to flatter self’s bosom without attracting starving infants. 

I arrived on time, and Mark met me at the door with a peck on the cheek, impeccably dressed as usual; think Mark Darcy was born in a pair of perfectly-creased trousers and white shirt. Something flickered in his eyes when he looked at me, and wondered if I’d managed to conjure some of his memories with clouds of perfume.

“Everything okay?” I asked tentatively.

Mark blinked, as if he hadn’t realized he’d been staring. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I was just—that is, I thought for a moment—but it’s nothing.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No, nothing at all,” he assured me; then suddenly, instinctively, he reached up and brushed a loose strand of hair back from my face. Felt cheeks turn crimson in the spot where his fingers had touched my skin. “God, Bridget, I—I’m sorry, I wasn’t--”

“No,” I said hurriedly. “No, it’s okay.”

“Right.” Mark smiled. “Shall we, then?”

“Oh, yes, let’s.” 

Decided to take him to a cozy little Italian place not far from my flat where we’ve eaten a few times, hoping the surroundings might stir up memories for Mark.

“I hope you like it,” I said as Mark scrutinized the wine list. “it’s quiet, which I thought might help you relax, and we’ve come here together a few times."

“It’s lovely,” said Mark, his gaze taking in the soft candle light dancing over wine glasses. “But I can’t recall any specific memory, I’m afraid. I’m sorry, Bridget.” Felt a lump rise to my throat as I remembered the last time we’d been there together, the glow of the candle flickering in Mark’s eyes and the warmth of his skin as he’d traced his thumb across the back of my hand. Before I could speak, a server approached, and after running his eye over the wine selection again, Mark smoothly requested his favorite red and a glass of white for me.

“Well, I’m glad to see the accident hasn’t affected your pallet, at least,” I laughed. “And how did you know I always prefer white?”

Mark frowned down at the menu again. “I. . . don’t know what made me do that,” he said.

“Someone should probably tell you you have excellent taste, Mr Darcy.” Then gabbled on before I could stop myself, “Tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable. I’m probably making you uncomfortable, but I just want you to know that I. . . don’t have any expectations or anything.”

Mark reached across the table and took my hand. “It’s all right, Bridget,” he murmured. I looked into his eyes—so deep and soft and full of kindness—and realized again that Mark, perhaps acting on some deep-seeded, Darcy instinct, had taken hold of the situation and was offering me comfort when I was supposed to be helping him.

Smiling in spite of myself, I gave his hand a squeeze. “That’s one of the things I like about you, Mark. You’re so, well, chivalrous. You’re always looking out for other people, even when you should be worrying about yourself.”

“Thank you for saying that, Bridget,” he said, his eyes glistening. “I’ve felt so much like an empty shell these last two weeks, and I can’t always tell whether whatever I’m trying to fill that mold with is my own sense of self or just the pieces of myself that I’ve been constructing with what others have told me.”

“I don’t think you’re a different person,” I said. “I think all of the pieces are still there; they’ve just been, um, a bit rattled.”

Mark chuckled. “I suppose that’s reassuring.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean—shit, I’m sorry!” I exclaimed. “That wasn’t what I meant. It’s more that you’ve been sort of, well, shaken by the experience, but I think at your core, you’re still the same person. I don’t think you can ever really lose that.”

“Thank you, Bridget,” Mark murmured again. He glanced down at my hand still cradled in his and moved as if to raise it to his lips; then seeming to reconsider, he gave it a gentle pat and offered me a warm smile. “Right. Well, enough about me. You’ve hardly said a word about yourself. I feel if I’m to get to know you better, I should have a bit more to go on. Tell me about your work; you have a job in television, I understand. That must be quite exciting.”

“Oh, um. . .” I blushed. “It’s nothing terribly exciting; I think sometimes I’m complete shit at it, actually. You needn’t give me that encouraging smile either,” I added. “If you could remember some of the shining moments of my career, you’d be wondering why I haven’t been sacked.” Told him all about misadventures at “Sit up Britain,” including infamous fireman pole fiasco that made self the laughing stock of England.

“That does seem rather. . . unfortunate,” Mark said delicately.

“It was a fucking nightmare,” I laughed.

Over tiramisu and espresso, the conversation turned back—quite literally—to Mark’s past; he caught me a bit off-guard when he started asking questions about his childhood.

“My mother tells me we knew each other as children; our parents have always been great friends, apparently.”

‘Oh, ding-fucking-dong,’ I thought. Suddenly heard Mum’s voice in head: ‘Oh, you remember the Darcys, darling. They came over when we lived in Buckingham and you and Mark played in the paddling pool.’

“Well, um, yes!” I trilled. “But we didn’t see much of each other, I’m afraid; we were very young, or at least, I was, and then you went off to Eton, and I hardly ever recall seeing you at all. To be honest,” I added, feeling self blushing, “mostly I just know what my mum’s told me, and it’s, um, well… a bit pervy, actually."

Mark’s brows drew together. “Really? I’m intrigued.”

‘Oh God!’ I thought. ‘Why did I tell him that? Why! Why!’ Explained all about the paddling pool, and even in the midst of my own humiliation, couldn’t help appreciating that half the fun of telling Mark these stories is watching the way his face manages to broadcast about five different expressions in the space of a single instant.

Midway between a smile and a frown, he gave up the struggle and decided to laugh. “That does sound. . . a bit pervy,” he agreed.

“Your mum has it on video, if you don’t believe me.”

“I think I’ll take your word for it, actually,” Mark replied.

I laughed. “Probably a good idea.” 

When we finished our meal, decided to take Mark back to my flat for a bit (not for sex, obvs. Am virtuous, Florence Nightingale-type Victorian angel, not slutty nurse). We wandered around Borough Market for a little while to walk off dinner, and loved the way Mark kept my arm tucked in his, placing his free hand over mine. Think possibly though that maybe he just didn’t want to wander off and get lost. Would be horrible, unforgivable offense if managed to lose own boyfriend on a date; not that Mark and I are back together, really, although can we even get back together when I’m not entirely sure we’ve split in the first place? Was convinced when Mark dropped me at my flat after horrible Rebecca/St john fiasco that I’d been chucked; then a few days later saw him getting out of a taxi with Rebecca, which seemed to confirm self’s suspicions, but then Mark rang sounding v forlorn in manner of bedraggled puppy and didn’t know what to think. Suppose squiffy, ranty, feminist Linda Fiorentino speech counted as chucking, so obvs and strong, independent woman with power to chuck boyfriend instead of always the one being chucked. Tralalala! Except. . . think now that shouldn’t have chucked Mark, and not just because am partially to blame for nearly killing him and wiping all of his memories. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone. 

Right. Must focus on situation at hand. Brought Mark up to my flat and, remembering pile of clothes scattered over bedroom as if wardrobe had been hit by nuclear bomb, instantly regretted not tidying up before going out. Quickly excused self and slipped into the loo to compose nerves (i.e. check wash basin for stray tubes of contraceptive jelly) and emerged to find Mark standing in the center of the living-room, apparently scrutinizing the clutter.

“Just, um, make yourself comfortable,” I said, hurriedly shoving aside latest issues of Hello! to make room on the sofa for Mark to sit. “Sorry,” I added, waving a hand at the mess. “I ought to have, um, tidied up a bit.”

“It’s quite all right,” said Mark, which seemed most alarming symptom of brain trauma yet; Mark’s general aversion to chaos and disorganization is one of the things that makes him, well, Mark. “It’s rather. . . cozy,” he observed.

I laughed. “It looks like a hurricane has ripped through my flat.”

“No,” Mark chuckled. “It looks, well… lived in. It’s homey; it has character, like you’ve created a comfortable space for yourself here. I wonder, though.” He gestured to a corner of the room. “that seems an odd place for the wastepaper basket.”

“Oh!” I blushed. “Well, it’s tricky to know just where everything goes; you see, you don’t want it in your wealth corner, because it might encourage poor spending, or you’ll lose your bank card or something, but you also don’t want it in your relationship corner in case you get chucked and, um, well, it’s all a bit confusing.”

“It certainly sounds like a perplexing interior decorating dilemma,” Mark agreed.

“Anyway, I’m glad you like it,” I said. “I thought maybe it might help bring back some of your memories.”

“Alas, we’ve hit another dead end there, I’m afraid,” Mark sighed. “I’m sorry, Bridget.” Felt tears stinging my eyes, but before I could speak, Mark raised a hand and placed it against my cheek. “it doesn’t matter,” he whispered, and as his gaze met mine, I saw something stir behind his eyes—a flicker of that dark, smoldering look that always freezes time and stops my heart. “I’ve had a lovely evening.”

“So have I,” I said. Then suddenly experienced v odd muscle spasm in arm—only logical explanation as am certain had no conscious thought of slipping my hand behind Mark’s neck to cradle the back of his head. Body was obviously responding to powerful gravitational pull of self toward Mark, which self had no power to stop as gravity is a law and am law-abiding citizen. Should really not have found it surprising, then, to discover our arms wound around each other and mouths locked in magnetic snog. When Mark’s hand slid its way down my shoulder and I felt the brush of his fingertips against my breast, think my heart might actually have spilled into his palm. Felt his lips brush the hollow of my throat and had just begun to rake my fingers through his hair when he suddenly pulled away.

“Oh god, Bridget, I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” I demanded. “You don’t hear me complaining.”

“It isn’t that,” he said, offering a weak smile. “It’s just. . . we can’t—no, I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have anything to feel guilty about, Mark,” I protested. “If anything, I’m the one who should feel sorry; I feel like I’m taking advantage of you in a vulnerable situation.”

“No, Bridget.” Mark reached as if to stroke my cheek; then seemed to think better of it and let his hand drop back to his side. “You’ve been nothing but patient and supportive, and I can’t tell you enough what a comfort your company has been through this ordeal, but this—this isn’t right.”

I frowned and folded my arms, glaring at him. “Mark, just once can’t you stop being all noble and moral and dignified and think about what you want instead of what you think is proper? Has it ever occurred to you that sometimes what you want is what’s right?”

Mark sighed and rose from the sofa; when he started pacing and dragging a hand through his hair, he looked so familiarly, adorably Darcyish that I almost laughed in relief. “Bridget, it’s not that simple,” he said gently. “I can’t deny that I have a strong attraction to you, but right now I don’t feel I’m in a position to make any promises. My life is in chaos; I have nothing to offer you.”

“Oh, Mark.” Instinctively I stood and went to him, wrapping my arms around him and resting my head against his chest. “I’m not asking for anything.”

“I know that,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. It’s just—everything—all of this—it’s so terribly confusing. Just be patient with me. I’ll figure this out.”

“Of course,” I said, “but I don’t want you to feel as if I’ve boxed you into a corner. I just want you to be well, and I want you to be happy. Right now, just focus on yourself; don’t worry about what anyone else wants or expects of you, okay?"

Mark smiled. “You’re a woman of substance, Bridget Jones,” he murmured, pulling me into a tight hug.

“And you’re a good man, Mark Darcy,” I said, raising myself on tiptoe to peck his cheek. We stood like that for several minutes, comfortably wrapped in each other’s arms in manner of warm cocoon until the buzz of my entryphone broke the silence.

“Shit,” I muttered, reluctantly disentangling myself from Mark and crossing the room to answer it.

“Jones,” came a familiar drawl, “what color are your knickers?” Felt cheeks turning crimson as caught sight of mark arching a brow in mingled curiosity and amusement.

“Go away, Daniel,” I hissed.

“Jones, can I come up?”

“No! Go away!”

“Oh, come on, Jones,” he pleaded. “It’s been ages! I’m pining for your warm embrace and your cherry lips and your mummy pants. . . Mummy’s lovely mummy pants.”

“Daniel!” I shrieked. “Go away!” Glanced over at Mark to find his brows drawn together in concern. “I’m sorry about this,” I whispered, wondering how best to diffuse the situation. Noticed that Mark didn’t seem to have recognized Daniel’s voice, but some genetically chivalrous instinct had still apparently awakened in him to defend my honor in a manner that would likely have involved punching Daniel in the face. On balance, thought had just better go down and get rid of Daniel without either of them laying eyes on each other.

“Right. . . uh. . .” Shifted uncomfortably under Mark’s questioning gaze, glancing between him and the front door.

“Friend of yours?” he asked delicately.

“Not exactly,” I replied. “I’m really, really sorry about this. I’ll just, uh, go down and. . . see what he wants.”

“Forgive me if this seems forward,” said Mark, “but I think he made himself quite clear as concerns the, ahem, purpose of his visit.”

“Oh,” I giggled nervously, wishing could just disappear through a hole in the carpet, “that’s just Daniel. He’s harmless, really.”

“Perhaps I should accompany you,” Mark offered.  
Suddenly imagined headlines in morning papers: ‘Brain-addled barrister murders former best friend.’

“Oh, no!” I gabbled. “It’s fine. Why don’t you just, um, make yourself comfortable? Read something. I’ll just be a moment.” Scurried downstairs and found Daniel waiting. Before could utter a syllable, he hooked an arm around my waist and pulled me to him.

“Jones,” he murmured, hot breath against my ear. “What color are your knickers?”

“Daniel,” I said, roughly disentangling myself, “you need to leave. It’s just. . . not a good time.”

“Mmm, Jones,” Daniel said in low sexy purr in manner of horny mountain lion, “you’ve got someone in your flat, haven’t you?”

“What? No! No!” I protested.

Daniel chuckled. “You have, you dirty little bitch. Well, I didn’t come round looking for a threesome, but life is for the living.”

“I think that’s quite enough,” came Mark’s voice. Quickly extricated self from Daniel again and spun round to see Mark standing at the top of the stairs, arms folded, glaring daggers at Daniel.

“Ah.” Daniel’s mouth turned up in a wicked grin. “I should have known. Darcy, of course.”

Mark frowned. “I’m sorry?”  
Shot Daniel a warning glance before he could speak. “I’ll explain later,” I whispered.  
Unfortunately, however, Mark’s braincells chose that inconvenient moment to connect. “Daniel?”

“In the flesh,” said Daniel. “And I’ve left my dueling pistols in my other coat, I’m afraid, so if you’re looking for a fight, it’ll have to be fisticuffs.”

Mark blinked in confusion. “I. . . don’t understand. What are you doing here?”

“Same thing you are, I expect,” Daniel grinned.

Mark frowned. “I wasn’t aware of you being. . . acquainted with Bridget.”

“Acquainted?” Daniel’s puzzled expression nearly mirrored Mark’s. “Darce,” he said slowly, “are you, uh, okay? I mean, you haven’t suffered a recent blow to the head, have you?”

“Hahahahaha, funny you should mention that!” I trilled before Mark could respond; then turning to him and adopting best soothing, Florence Nightingale memory-whisperer voice, said, “Mark, I know we’ve all been asking you a lot of stupid questions lately, but just humor me, okay?” He nodded. “Right then. Tell me; do you know Daniel?"

“I should hope so,” said Mark. “He’s my best friend; we were at Cambridge together.” Encouragingly accurate, if we overlook omission of that v tiny detail about Daniel sleeping with Mark’s wife two weeks after their wedding; negligible, really, if you consider that immediately following the accident, Mark didn’t recognize his own mother. Excellent progress, I think, or at least, promising start.

“really,” I said, shooting Daniel another warning look as he started to speak. “Well, that’s great! You’ve remembered something!”

“Bridge,” Daniel interrupted, “forgive me if this seems rude, but what the fuck is going on?”

“It’s sort of a long story,” I said. “Maybe you’d better come up, and I’ll explain everything.” Why not? Situation couldn’t possibly get any more awkward. Mark Darcy and Daniel Cleaver in my flat at the same time; what could possibly go wrong? 

Quickly managed to fill Daniel in on what had happened, at which point he seemed to realize that the loss of Mark’s memory meant Daniel had been miraculously forgiven for past sins in manner of Catholic priest granting Absolution or similar.

“So, let me get this straight,” he said, eyeing Mark suspiciously. “You can’t remember anything? Anything at all?”

“that might be a bit of an exaggeration,” answered Mark, sounding a bit more like his usual self, “but there are quite a few blank patches. For instance,” he glanced at me, “I gather that your connection to Bridget is, well, not through me.”

“Daniel and I used to work together,” I chirped before Daniel could explain entire sex triangle and possibly make Mark’s head explode. “I worked in publishing, and Daniel was my boss, and we sort of, you know. . .”

“Became acquainted, as you put it,” Daniel chimed in, surprisingly helpfully.

“I didn’t even know the two of you knew each other, actually, until Daniel mentioned you were at Cambridge together and--”

“Jones,” said Daniel, laying a hand on my arm, “maybe you should shut up.”  
Realized was coming dangerously close to discussing whole Mark-being-cuckolded-by-cruel-raced-ex-wife disaster and Daniel’s part in it.

“Right. Well, anyway, I think that’s brought you up to speed.”

Mark frowned. “There’s something you’re not telling me,” he said, glancing from one to the other of us.

“No! No!” I insisted.

“Bridget?” Mark fixed me with such a familiar, stern look that thought for a moment everything in his mind had just magically sprung back into place.  
Daniel heaved a dramatic sigh. “you’re right, Darce.”

“Daniel,” I hissed.

“No, Jones, he deserves to know the truth.” Turning back to Mark, he said, without the slightest change of expression, “We have regular threesomes.”

“We. . . what?” Mark’s expression seemed frozen between amusement and horror.

“Yes,” said Daniel. “We’re just one big happy sex sandwich.”

“Daniel!” I shrieked. “He’s joking, Mark,” I added in calm, soothing, I-have-everything-under-control tone.

“Of course I’m joking, Darce,” Daniel laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “I could never get you to agree to that, although, there’s a first for everything.”

“Daniel!” Laughing in spite of myself, I swatted his arm while shooting Mark an apologetic look.

“right.” Daniel glanced at his watch and stood. “It’s been lovely, but I’m afraid I must be off. Urgent appointment.”

“I’m sure,” I muttered. “What’s her name?”

“Oh, Jones.” Daniel gave my backside an affectionate pat. “Great to see you, Darce,” he added, clapping Mark on the shoulder again. Suddenly, on the pretense of leaning in to peck my cheek, he whispered, with a glance at Mark, “Take care of him, Bridge.”

As my eyes filled, I started to seriously worry about how much I’ve cried since Mark’s accident and that it seems a miracle I’ve not become dehydrated and shriveled up like dried lima-bean or something. “I will, Daniel,” I whispered. 

Mark v quiet on the drive back to his house, and I thought it best to let him alone to sift through the night’s events.

Just inside the front door, I finally decided to break the silence. “Mark, I’m sorry. Tonight didn’t turn out exactly the way I’d planned.”

“Don’t blame yourself,” he murmured, caressing my cheek with the back of his hand. “But. . . Bridget. . .” He hesitated, and I felt my stomach clench uncomfortably. “Regarding what I said before, about Daniel, there is something you’re not telling me.” I looked into those clear, penetrating brown eyes and saw the wheels turning in his mind. Stood there chewing on my bottom lip and thinking; on the one hand, not telling Mark about the fallout with Daniel might only make things worse if he does remember, because not only will he have to experience that sense of betrayal afresh—like slicing open an old wound—but he’ll feel as if I’ve betrayed him by withholding everything. On the other, if anyone’s going to explain the situation to Mark, Daniel seems the best person for the job. Still, not entirely sure he’d handle it in a way that wouldn’t give Mark a stroke. Can just imagine it.

‘Right, well, the thing is, Darce, I was best man at your wedding and then I, uh, sort of. . . slept with your wife two weeks later. Couldn’t help myself. It didn’t mean a thing, but you took it rather badly, I’m afraid.’

“Well,” I said finally, “it all started before you and I really got to know each other.”

“Do you know what happened?” Mark asked, and I tried not to giggle as I suddenly heard Mum’s voice again.

‘Poor Mark. You know his Japanese wife left him on Christmas day (cruel race). Ran off with his best friend from Cambridge apparently. Total scoundrel. Best man at his wedding. Then Christmas Eve Mark comes home early from work and finds the pair of them in a most unorthodox position; stark naked, at it like rabbits!’

“Perhaps this isn’t the best time,” Mark suggested, correctly interpreting my hesitation.

“No, probably not.”

“Right. Well. . .” He stood considering me for several moments, brow furrowed in concentration as if trying to catch hold of something just out of his reach. Finally, he sighed. “It’s late. You should get home.”

“Right. Okay.” Mark reached for my hand and squeezed it; then, after a moment’s hesitation, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to my forehead before gently, experimentally laying his lips on mine.

“Good night, Bridget.”

Good night, indeed; now am just lying awake in bed, replaying that kiss over and over and over again in my head like a scene from a movie. Fuck. How am I ever going to get to sleep now?


	4. Constancy and Inconstancy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The flashback in this chapter is inspired by the scene in the first film in which Mark discovers Daniel with his wife, but I've altered it a bit to suit my own needs.

> I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman’s inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman’s fickleness.- Jane Austen, Persuasion

#### Mark, Sunday 16 March

When Mark woke, he immediately registered a strange, hollow sensation in the pit of his stomach that felt utterly incongruous with his mood when he’d fallen asleep the previous night. Despite the encounter with Daniel and Mark’s struggle to stay afloat amidst the wave of confusing feelings that had arisen inside him toward Bridget, he’d enjoyed the evening—more than enjoyed it, in fact. When Bridget had suggested the dinner, he’d looked forward to the company and getting reacquainted with her without any expectation of recovering any of his memories. When he’d held her—when he’d kissed her—he’d acted instinctively, and any hesitation on his part had less to do with the surprise of what he’d felt and more with the confusion that arose over the fact that he couldn’t connect those feelings with a particular recollection. He’d confessed to Bridget that he was strongly attracted to her, but no; that wasn’t quite right. Proverbial sparks had ignited, certainly, and yet when the initial flair had subsided, rather than cooling, it had settled into a tender glow that Mark believed could not have been the work of a few hours—or even a few days. On closing his eyes last night, he’d begun to wonder if the way forward through this maze of uncertainty was, in the most cliché terms, simply to follow his heart.

Tentatively he reached into the recesses of his mind to grasp at the wisps of memory that furled and unfurled around him like a cloud of smoke. If he could just catch hold of it, he thought he could find an explanation for that vague, inexplicable sense of hopelessness that had settled on him. When he closed his eyes, he caught flashes of what might have been a dream he’d had the night before—pacing his darkened house, phone pressed to his ear as he struggled desperately to reason with someone at the other end of the line.

“Bridge, why do you always have to jump to conclusions?” Dear God, Mark thought, burying his head in his pillow with a groan; Bridget. He’d been talking to Bridget, and somehow he knew that this hadn’t been simply a dream; he must, he realized, have been remembering the argument they’d had just before his accident. What had she said?

“Jumping to conclusions? Rebecca’s been making a play for you for a month, you chuck me for things I haven’t done, then next thing I see you getting out of a taxi with Rebecca.” He’d wanted to explain—tried to explain—but she’d launched into an impassioned monologue about not needing anyone in her life because they owed it to her, and Mark, admitting defeat, had surrendered and walked away. Except he hadn’t—not if his current predicament was any indication. Pressing his fingertips to his forehead, he tried to pull the memory into sharper focus; what had happened after he’d put down the phone? According to consensus, he’d intended to go round to Bridget’s to talk to her in person and had met with an accident on route to her flat, but try as he might, he couldn’t see past the moment when he’d ended the phone call.

“Mark, are you all right?” Elaine inquired as he entered the kitchen. “You look pale.”

“It’s nothing; I slept poorly,” Mark offered by way of explanation. Before either of them could continue the conversation, the phone rang.

“You sit,” Elaine directed as Mark poured himself a cup of coffee. “Hello?” After a slight pause, she said, “Oh, yes, how are you?” Another pause, and then, “He’s here, yes.” Covering the mouthpiece, Elaine turned to Mark and whispered, “It’s Rebecca.” Oddly, Mark felt a surge of hope at this news; he recalled that in his dream—or his memory—Bridget had pointedly mentioned Rebecca, and who better to ask how she fit into this puzzle?

“Rebecca, hello,” he said pleasantly. “How are you?”

“I’m well, thanks. How are you? How are you feeling?”

“As well as can be expected, all things considered. I’m glad you called, actually; there’s something I need to ask you about.”

“Really? Well. . .” Rebecca hesitated. “Now you mention it, I was thinking of popping over for a bit, if you feel like company.”

“That sounds perfect. We should probably have this conversation in person,” said Mark.

“Great. See you in about an hour then?”

“Yes, all right.” 

Precisely at the appointed time, Rebecca arrived with a smile neatly in place and a patisserie box tucked under one arm. The morning had turned unseasonably mild, and Elaine, in a likely attempt to grant them privacy, had discreetly suggested they take their coffee into the back garden.

“Mark,” Rebecca said once they’d settled themselves, “you don’t look well. Is something wrong?”

Mark sighed. “I don’t know. I seem to be regaining some of my memories from just before the accident.”

“Oh?” Rebecca flashed him a brilliant smile. “But that’s wonderful news, Mark!”

“One would expect so,” he said, “but in fact, I think it’s only made things more complicated.”

“I’m sorry,” murmured Rebecca. “Is there anything I can do?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact. That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about. Based on what I’ve been told and what I’ve managed to piece together, Bridget and I got into an argument the night of the accident. Last night, the memory of that fight came back to me and, well. . .” Mark paused, swallowed, and willed himself to meet Rebecca’s inquisitive gaze. “It—well, it principally concerned you.” He described in detail what he’d remembered, observing Rebecca’s expression for a reaction if his story surprised her, she betrayed no sign of it. Finally, when he finished speaking, she reached over and took his hand.

“Oh, Mark, I’m so sorry if you’ve been given the wrong impression. Of course I never meant to interfere in your relationship with Bridget.”

“Rebecca,” said Mark, his gaze direct and unflinching, “what did happen? Is it—forgive me, what Bridget said—is there any truth in it? Was there—is there. . . something between us?”

“Well, it was like I told you the day I came to see you in hospital; we bumped into each other by chance at a mutual friend’s drinks party. I’d heard all about you from Bridget, and I was actually surprised to see you there on your own considering you seemed so besotted with each other, but you said you only stopped in because Bridget was running late for your date—or had canceled on you or something. I didn’t think much of it at the time, aside from the fact that it seemed odd that she’d be putting you off so soon in the relationship if she was so keen on you.” Mark nodded, motioning her to continue. “Well, anyway,” she went on breathily, “the next time I bumped into you was in New York, completely by chance; you were there for work and I was with some friends, and we just happened to be staying in the same hotel. It’s lucky we were, actually, because it was the week of Valentine’s Day, and you told me you wanted to do something nice for Bridget to make up for missing it.”

“And,” Mark interjected, “I have a suspicion where this is all headed, but humor me.”

“As it happens, I was going to Courcheval that weekend, and I thought it would be the perfect romantic minibreak, so I suggested you take Bridget.”

“I see.” Mark frowned. “forgive me, but this all seems a bit. . . contrived.”

“It really wasn’t, Mark,” said Rebecca, eyes wide with apparent sincerity. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it at all if you hadn’t been searching for an idea; I only wanted to help. Please believe that, and in fact it’s a good thing I was there. Bridget doesn’t really fancy skiing,” she added, trying and failing to smother a giggle. “All she wanted to do was sit in the mountain café and drink grappas and hot chocolate. If I hadn’t been there, you’d never have got onto the slopes at all.”

“I’m obviously missing something,” said Mark, “because it seems incredibly shallow to split up with someone because they lack skill at winter sports.”

“Oh, no!” Rebecca giggled again. “It had nothing to do with that, although I thought she might have made more of an effort to enjoy herself when you went to so much trouble—and at the last minute too—so that you could have a lovely Valentine’s Day. It just seemed rather inconsiderate, but maybe I don’t know the whole story. You asked me what happened, and I can only tell you what I know and what I’ve observed. I can’t speak for Bridget.”

“I know,” Mark said gently. “I’m sorry if I sounded accusatory. I appreciate you telling me all of this, and it does shed light on things. It’s not your fault if things show up in the light that I didn’t want to see. Please continue. Is there more?”

Rebecca nodded. “Yes, A week or two after Courcheval, I was having a house-party, and I thought I’d invite you and Bridget. We were all walking around in the grounds after everyone arrived, but Bridget hung back so she could have a cigarette. That really bothered you, I think, because you said she’d promised you she was going to quit, but you let it go and left her to it. When we came back a while later, she seemed to be getting on really well with my nephew, St John; he’s a lovely boy, but he can be a bit, well, impressionable. I think he took a fancy to Bridget, though I suspect she was just being friendly.”

“So what happened?” Mark asked, growing impatient.

“After dinner I thought we could all have a swim, but Bridget didn’t seem too keen. She was still chatting to my nephew when everyone left the dining-room to change into their swimwear; I didn’t think anything of it, but you were really worried about her. You said you thought she’d looked upset during dinner and wanted to go in to check on her. I offered to go with you, and we found her in the dining-room, with St John; it looked like. . . they seemed to be kissing.”

Mark felt the bottom drop out of his stomach. “but that—I don’t understand. Why would she--” He couldn’t finish the sentence; his mouth felt dry, and his throat seemed to be constricting.

“It was quite a shock for you,” murmured Rebecca. “Although I can’t say I was surprised. We had a lot of time to chat, you and I, over the weekend, and you told me that things hadn’t really been going well for you and Bridget; you really wanted to make a go of it, because you cared a lot about her, but she just seemed so uncommitted.” Mark pressed the tips of his fingers to his forehead, willing himself to remember as Rebecca’s voice continued to swirl around the mist in his brain. “As I said, I’m not really surprised; Bridget is a lovely girl, Mark, but she’s still trying to find herself—doesn’t know what she wants. She’s so busy trying to live her life according to some magical self-help formula, trying to find the perfect balance from theoretical knowledge and advice from her friends that she doesn’t believe in herself, and if a woman doesn’t believe in herself, how can anyone else believe in her? I think it bothered you quite a lot, Mark—and all of the little things as well, like promising to give up smoking and then not even making an attempt, being perpetually late—you know, the sorts of quirks that seem like nothing, but get tiresome to deal with after a while. If you love someone—really love someone, none of that matters. You might see their faults, but you don’t go looking for them.”

“Yeeeees,” Mark said slowly, trying to unstick the words that had lodged in the back of his throat. “I suppose that’s true.”

Rebecca nodded vigorously. “I think that’s why she has a hard time maintaining relationships, floating around between different men because she can’t work out what she wants, and then she gets insecure and blames them for not liking her just as she is, but how can they when she can’t even work out for herself who she is?”

“I wonder,” murmured Mark, “what you’ve just said—it’s reminded me of something. I neglected to mention this earlier, but I had dinner with Bridget last night.” For the merest flicker of an instant, he thought he saw Rebecca’s mouth twist into a sneer, but when he blinked, her face had smoothed.

“Did something happen?” she asked gently.

“Not at dinner; we actually had a lovely time, but we went back to her flat for a bit afterward, and Daniel Cleaver showed up.”

“Daniel?” Rebecca’s eyebrows shot up. “Bridget’s old boyfriend?”

“Yes, he—wait, what?” Mark paused, certain he’d misheard. “Did you say—I don’t understand. Bridget went out with Daniel?”

“Not for very long. Didn’t you—oh, but of course, you wouldn’t remember.”

“I did wonder,” said Mark.

“You knew Daniel, I think?” asked Rebecca.

Mark nodded. “We were at school together; best mates, actually. He was b--” Suddenly the words caught in Mark’s throat as the memory slammed into him with the force of an iron fist to the center of his chest, and he struggled to piece together the images that flashed across his brain: Daniel in his house; Daniel wound around another woman, their bodies locked in the intense grip of the moment’s passion; the woman—Mark’s wife, he realized—turning round to face him, her gaze cool and remorseless as Daniel’s fumbling apologies echoed around him, the words distorted by the blood pounding in his head. Two pairs of clothes lay haphazardly entwined nearby, in silent collusion with their owners’ desires.

“Oh god,” Mark groaned, jerking himself back to the present. “Oh god.” He lowered his head into his hands, wishing he could blot out the images that still swam before him. “Of course. Bloody Hell, why didn’t I realize?”

“Mark?” Rebecca rose and came to kneel beside him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Mark, what’s the matter? Do you feel all right?”

“I feel like a complete idiot,” he replied. “I’ve just remembered. I don’t know if you were aware—I don’t know if I ever told you, but I’ve been married—at least, as married as a person can be for two weeks. We were colleagues; it seemed convenient—the perfect professional partnership. In hindsight, I realize what a dreadful miscalculation it was, but at the time, I honestly thought it was what I wanted. I was essentially married to my career; love, domestic felicity, family—I couldn’t see any of it on the horizon.” Rebecca’s sympathetic silence encouraged him to sift through the emotions that had broken the surface, so he continued quietly, his eyes staring into the peephole that had opened up in his past. “Even if things hadn’t transpired the way they did, I wonder now if it would have lasted. I didn’t have many close friends, apart from Daniel. We grew up together—Eton, Cambridge, you know; he was best man at my wedding. Then he. . . he slept with my wife. I discovered them together one evening when I came home early from work.”

“Oh, Mark!” Rebecca’s hand flew to her mouth. “How terrible for you! And in your own house!”

“Yes. Nothing makes a man feel a fool as much as discovering he’s been betrayed in his own home, but I was a fool. We didn’t love each other, but I respected her. Love match or not, we made a contract, and I intended to honor it. I wanted to—I would have been good to her. Marriage is a legal contract, of course, but I ought to have realized that the legal trappings aren’t always enough to bind two people together, and in any case, it was Daniels betrayal that hurt more, I think. Had it been anyone else, had he been a stranger, I might have taken it less to heart.”

“You’re placing too much blame on yourself, Mark,” whispered Rebecca, stroking his arm with the tips of neatly-manicured fingers. “I’m sure it wasn’t your fault. Daniel was your best friend; you trusted him. You couldn’t have known.”

“couldn’t I?” Mark laughed bitterly. “I knew Daniel; I’d known him for years. He’d always enjoyed the company of women; sex was almost a recreational sport to him. but you’re right, I suppose. I always thought him unscrupulous; I didn’t exactly approve of his ways, but I believed him to possess enough honor not to cross certain lines. I never thought—never suspected. . . he was like a brother to me. I never imagined--” His words caught on the jagged tear in his chest; he felt the sting of the betrayal as sharply as if its blade had just slashed him.

“And Bridget—Bridget knew about this?” asked Rebecca.

“Not at first,” said Mark. “I told her after she discovered Daniel cheating on her, I think, not long before she and I started seeing each other. I did wonder though, last night, when Daniel showed up. I didn’t remember anything at the time, but whatever had gone on between them, I thought it was over. Still, I sensed Bridget was keeping something from me when Daniel turned up, and he seemed to think I was acting oddly. I remembered him, but not what happened between us. Bridget seemed to think it might be a bit much for me to take in under the circumstances; she kept trying to avoid the subject, and in any case I was too curious about how she knew Daniel. I thought there might be something between them, but I couldn’t work out what it was.”

“And, um, what did she tell you?” asked Rebecca.

“She said they used to work together; she didn’t—neither of them mentioned they’d been involved. If it were all behind her, Bridget wouldn’t have failed to mention it, unless. . . I don’t know. Perhaps she thought it better to wait until my mind was clearer.”

“Possibly,” Rebecca said slowly, “but the thing is, like I said, Bridget isn’t really sure about what she wants, and she sets so much store by what others, especially men, think of her, so whenever Daniel comes round, whenever he shows interest in her, she finds a kind of affirmation in that."

Mark considered her words; given what he now remembered about Daniel, it seemed unwise to read too much into his flirtation with Bridget the previous night, and yet Bridget had seemed hesitant to reveal the nature of her relationship with Daniel. The possibility that he could manipulate her emotions so easily did seem to lend credence to Rebecca’s observations. Then too, considering what Mark had just remembered about his own fallout with Daniel, Bridget’s obvious intimacy with him seemed—well, perhaps disloyal was a harsh word, but it was certainly disquieting.

“I’m sorry if I’ve upset you, Mark,” Rebecca said finally.

Mark sighed. “It’s not your fault,” he said, trying to massage away the ache in his temples. “This is all just a bit overwhelming; I keep thinking that unearthing new memories will help me to reconstruct my life, but it only seems to make the puzzle more difficult to piece together.”

Rebecca glanced at her watch and stood. “I should be going.” She leaned in to peck his cheek. “I’ll see myself out. I hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything.” Mark nodded and thanked her. Resting his chin in his hands as he watched her go, he wondered how he was ever going to untangle the web of confusion that his life had become.

* * *

#### Bridget, Wednesday 19 March

Weight: 14 st (feels like. Entire body weighed down with despair and chocolate).  
Calories: 9000 (no point maintaining healthy weight any longer. Am going to die hopeless, barren spinster).  
Alcohol units: 6.  
Cigarettes: 23.  
Boyfriends: 0. Am complete waste of space as human being. Would seriously consider becoming a nun if were A: Catholic and B: still a virgin.

#### 9.00 PM

It’s no wonder I’m obsessed with dying alone and being eaten by an Alsatian; any time I seem to be showing signs of managing to maintain a functional relationship with an adult male, I inevitably fuck it up. Date with Mark on Saturday (which did not at first classify as date until found self passionately snogging him in my flat) might actually have turned out perfectly if Daniel hadn’t inadvertently gatecrashed it; leave it to bloody Daniel. Still, despite everything, I think Mark is finally beginning to recover; he remembered Daniel, for a start, even if he conveniently repressed the whole cruel-raced ex-wife fiasco, and I can just sense him coming back. You only need to look into Mark’s eyes to see the truth staring back at you, and I know—I’m sure I saw a flicker of him, the real him when he kissed me. Why, why, why then did I have to go and make such a mess of everything?

After the confusion of the evening, re: accidental snogging, Mark admitting his feelings for me, Daniel interrupting, Mark suddenly and awkwardly recovering partial memories of Daniel ETC., thought I’d just give him a bit of time to process it all; he’s been through a lot in the past few weeks, and he must find it tiresome to have everyone popping up at odd intervals shouting, “Oy! Do you remember yet?” Started to worry though when realized today that haven’t heard from him at all, or even Elaine, to update me on his progress, so when arrived home from work thought I’d just give him a ring.

“Oh, hello, Bridget.” Mark sounded v odd when he answered—cool and polite, the way one might address an acquaintance in the queue at the coffee shop instead of person one has madly shagged in manner of bunny. Not that he remembers mad bunny-shagging, obvs, but the other night—that kiss—it wasn’t as if it was just four lips shaking hands or something. “How are you?”

“Oh, fine! Fine!” I trilled. “I just thought I’d check in; it’s been a few days. How are you doing?”

“I’m doing all right,” Mark replied, still in v odd, detached voice.

“Oh, great!” I said. “I, um, I had a lovely time on Saturday.”

“Yes,” murmured Mark, the hard edge in his voice seeming to give way slightly. “So did I.”

“Well,” I began before Mark suddenly interrupted.

“Bridget, why didn’t you tell me the truth?”

‘Shit,’ I thought. Knew I should have told Mark the truth about Daniel and his ex-wife, but it didn’t seem the right moment, and didn’t know how to break it to him gently without possibly giving him an aneurism or something.

“I’m really, really sorry, Mark,” I said. “Someone should have told you; I just wasn’t sure I was the right person. I thought maybe your mum might have explained everything, but you didn’t even remember being married and--”

“I wasn’t referring to that,” Mark interrupted, “although I did manage to work that out.”

“You—you remembered?”

“Yes,” he said, “but that’s not what I’m talking about. Why didn’t you tell me the truth about you and Daniel?”

“It’s. . . complicated,” I replied, admittedly v lamely, if truthfully. Whole Mark/me/Daniel sex sandwich scenario makes my brain ache, so really cannot blame self for wanting to shield Mark. “Mark, I’m sorry!” Felt eyes welling with tears and wished could just crawl into bed with a carton of Ben and Jerry’s and hide under the duvet for about a century. “I didn’t want to overwhelm you. I know how hard these last few weeks have been for you; you’ve had so much to try to remember, so much to adjust to, and all things considered, I didn’t think it was that important.”

“Hmm, I’d have thought, under the circumstances, you might have mentioned you’re seeing both of us.” Suddenly felt Shazzer-like surge of feminist rage; Mark Darcy was accusing me of sneaking around with Daniel behind his back? After he practically threw me over for Rebecca? Bastard!

“For your information,” I said, v slowly and calmly, because am dignified woman and not praying mantis who has sex with men and then decapitates them, “I didn’t start going out with you until months after Daniel chucked me for a giantess with legs to the chandeliers and the perfect body.”

“I see,” murmured Mark.

“That’s right,” I sniffed; then more softly, “You do believe me, don’t you?”

Mark sighed. “I don’t know what to believe any more.” Line fell eerily silent.

“Mark?” I squeaked.

“Bridget, I’m sorry. I should go. I need some time to think.”

“Right. Well. . .”

“Bridget, look, I. . .”

“No, it’s fine,” I said coolly. “I understand. You clearly have some difficult decisions to make. I won’t interfere with that, but I’ll just tell you one thing.” I paused, closed my eyes, gathered my strength, and launched. “If you want to make a relationship work, really work, you need trust. If there’s no trust, there’s no love, and if there’s no love, there’s no relationship.” And before I could change my mind, I put down the phone. Oh God, what the fuck have I just done?

On one hand, feel highly insulted that Mark would accuse me of seeing him and Daniel at the same time; how could he claim one moment that I’m jumping to conclusions over whole Rebecca situation and then the next do the exact same thing himself over Daniel? Still, have no right to come over all self-righteous, lecturing Mark about trust when my suspicions about Rebecca got us into this mess in the first place. Of course, turned out was right about Rebecca, though not, it seems, about Mark, who is just a lovable idiot Martian who can’t tell when a woman is trying to snatch him away even when she’s digging her claws into him. Can hardly compare self’s suspicions re: Rebecca to Mark’s suspicions re: Daniel, as self’s suspicions turned out to be entirely founded, whereas Mark’s have no evidence whatsoever. On other hand, really, really, really miss Mark; oh God, I’m so lonely, but better to die alone with the knowledge that I haven’t sacrificed my dignity than in a relationship with a man who doesn’t trust me. Hahahaha! Take that, Mark Darcy!


	5. Half Agony, Half Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dinner-party in this chapter is inspired by the one that Mark actually attends in EOR, but in my version, Magda doesn't attend, because Mark needs to work through everything without the influence of people whou know Bridget well, for the purposes of adding to the element of suspense. also, Mark never does give us a complete explanation of the evening when Bridget sees him exiting a taxi with Rebecca; I thought he deserved the chance to explain himself fully. See the end of this chapter.

> You Pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever. . . Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant.- Jane Austen, Persuasion

#### Mark, Thursday 20 March

Mark paced his study, brow furrowed in concentration as he willed himself to summon a flicker of memory—some solid, tangible reminder of his inhabitance in this space. Gradually, as his memories had begun to return, he could feel the contours of his life beginning to fill out; the time spent with his mother had brought back recollections of his childhood; remembering Daniel had opened a floodgate that frankly Mark wished could have remained shut for just a bit longer. Even so, each day he felt less adrift at sea on an uncharted course. He still had quite a way to travel, but the fog surrounding him now seemed less to do with his confusion about the facts of his life and more with his feelings about the shapes that had begun to emerge.

Sighing, he wandered along the well-stocked bookcases that lined the walls, trailing his fingers over the embossed spines of thick, legal reference books and a myriad of other volumes—mostly historical titles and literary fiction, and all meticulously catalogued, alphabetically and by genre. One corner of his mouth turned up in a reluctant smile; he had to wonder how someone as apparently organized as himself had wound up in a relationship with Bridget, given the chaos that had greeted him upon entering her flat. Without much thought, he reached for one of the books nearest to hand—the Quiet American by Graham Green. Turning it over, he observed that it appeared well-worn and distinctly dog-eared; it must, he supposed, have been one of his favorites. He flicked curiously through several pages before settling on the sofa to read. Perhaps the story would be familiar to him and help to stir some of the memories still lurking in the murky depths of his mind; in any case, he hadn’t anything more productive to do at the moment. He hadn’t read more than a few pages when the phone began to ring; his mother had stepped out to run an errand, so laying the book aside, Mark stood and reached for the extension on the desk.

“Darcy,” he said in a clipped, efficient tone that he barely recognized as his own.

“Mark?”

“yes, speaking,”

“Mark, it’s Rebecca.”

“Oh, of course; how are you?”

“I’m well, and you? You sound remarkably better.”

“It’s kind of you to say so,” said Mark. “I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever feel like myself again. I’m not even sure I remember what that’s supposed to feel like any more.”

“I’m sorry,” Rebecca murmured; then after a pause she continued, “That’s partly why I’m calling, actually. I’ve had an idea. I don’t know if it would help, but I’m having a dinner-party on Saturday; quite a few of your colleagues are planning to be there. I wondered if you might like to come.”

“Oh, well. . .” Mark hesitated. The thought of spending the evening in a room full of people he was supposed to know but whom he likely had no recollection of ever having seen before made his head begin to throb. “I’m. . . not sure, Rebecca,” he said finally.

“It might do you good to get out,” she coaxed. “Everyone’s been asking after you; I’m sure they’ll all be thrilled to see you, and perhaps they might help bring back more of your memories.”

Mark sighed. “I don’t know. Will Bridget be there?” The question had slipped out before he realized he wanted to ask, and in any case, what had prompted him to ask? As far as he understood, Rebecca and Bridget were friends, or at least, they had been before the incident at the house-party, which he supposed would naturally have created tension between them. Why then did he expect Bridget to be in attendance, or even want her to be for that matter considering the rather discordant note on which they’d ended their conversation last night? If he was honest with himself, Mark had to admit that the prospect of facing his first large social gathering since the accident seemed less daunting with the possibility of having Bridget’s moral support. Still, given the unresolved issues between them, he presumed too much, and in any case, relying on her in such a situation—being coupled with her socially when he still hadn’t worked through his feelings for her—would only complicate matters further.

“Don’t you worry about that,” Rebecca soothed. “I know things have been tense between the two of you; I don’t want to do anything to make you uncomfortable.”

“No,” Mark interjected quickly. “No, it’s not that at all. I think I might like to see her, actually—have the reassurance of another familiar face, but of course, if you weren’t planning to—I wasn’t suggesting—Forgive me,” he finished awkwardly.

“Oh!” Rebecca injected a cheerful note into her voice, but Mark suspected his admission had caught her off-guard. “Her diary is always a bit full these days, but of course I’ll extend an invitation.”

“Right.” Suddenly Mark found himself somewhat looking forward to the evening if it would give him an opportunity to talk to Bridget. “Plan on me, then.”

“Wonderful!” exclaimed Rebecca. “Everyone will be so thrilled to see you. I’m sure this will be just what you need.”

Mark didn’t know if he agreed with her, but as he put down the phone, he had to concede that she had a point; the neurologist had told him that in addition to time and patience, surrounding himself with familiar people and routines would offer him the best hope of recovering his memories. Thus far, he’d kept himself largely secluded; with his family and Bridget, he seemed able to find solid ground to stand on, and Rebecca, despite being a relative stranger, had been sympathetic and kind. He’d thought a tender affection had begun to blossom between Bridget and himself, at least before the incident with Daniel had clouded the picture Mark had begun to construct of their relationship. No, though; that wasn’t right. Even after Daniel had unexpectedly shown up at Bridget’s flat, Mark had begun to convince himself that whatever had happened between them before his accident, he couldn’t deny his attraction to Bridget. Then he’d remembered fragments of their argument, and Rebecca had given him her account of what had happened with her nephew at the house-party. Admittedly, he hadn’t managed to recall any of that incident on his own, but Rebecca’s story painted a picture of Bridget that contrasted sharply with the one he’d begun to form. Mark couldn’t help questioning her motives; even if she had given him a faithful account of events, the Courchevel scenario in particular did have a slightly contrived air about it. Still, if Rebecca were trying to plant ideas in Mark’s mind, that didn’t account for the fact that he’d remembered Daniel’s betrayal on his own, not to mention that Bridget had conveniently omitted the detail about dating him. If, as she had claimed on the phone last evening, her relationship with Daniel had ended before she’d started going out with Mark, why conceal it?

“Bloody Hell,” he groaned, scrubbing his hands over his face. “What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?”

“Mark?” Lifting his head, he turned and saw his mother framed in the doorway, brows drawn together in concern. “Mark, is everything all right?”

“Mother,” he murmured, offering her a tired smile. “I didn’t hear you come in. I’m sorry.”

“You looked lost in thought,” she said, crossing the room to sit on the sofa.

Mark chuckled dryly. “that seems to be the general state of things lately.”

“Have you been thinking about Bridget?”

“Not just Bridget; about everything, really.”

“Have you tried to speak to her again since last evening?” Elaine asked gently.

Mark shook his head. “No; I don’t know what to say to her. I suppose it was unfair of me to make an accusation like the one I did with so little evidence to go on, but I still wish she’d have been honest with me.”

“Perhaps she should have been,” agreed Elaine, “though I can’t say I entirely blame her. The fact that you’ve begun to remember things on your own is promising, and frankly, I think the more you do work out on your own, the more secure you’ll feel because you’re constructing your own version of the narrative rather than using fragments from others.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Mark.  
Elaine tapped her fingertips together, thinking; at last she said, “Mark, why don’t you get out a bit? You need a change of scene, I think.”

Mark smiled. “Well, as it happens, I might have an opportunity to do just that.” He told his mother about his conversation with Rebecca and the party she was organizing for Saturday evening, voicing his ambivalence about whether or not he should attend.

“I think you should, Mark,” said Elaine. “It will do you good. I know you’re nervous about seeing your colleagues, but you’re going to have to face them eventually.” Mark nodded. “I think,” Elaine continued, “that part of the problem is that you’ve suspended normal activity, and it’s become increasingly clear that spending time with people who’ve been a part of your life is helping your recovery, if slowly. I think the best thing for you to do is to try to resume your normal routines as far as you’re able. Besides,” she added, eyes twinkling, “if Bridget will be there, you’ll at least have moral support.”

“I suppose so,” Mark sighed.

“Give it some thought,” said Elaine, rising and coming to stand beside him as she made her way toward the door. “I’ll just say one thing. As far as recovering your memory is concerned, you’re doing really well, Mark, but this situation with Bridget and Rebecca—well, I think you need to go about it differently.”

“How do you mean?” Mark asked, frowning at his mother.

“I think you need to look at it from a different angle, not so much a problem of the mind as one of the heart. You’re not going to reach a conclusion by working out what you think. You need to work out how you feel.”

Mark considered her words; then smiled. “I think you’re right, Mother.”  
Elaine leaned down and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Of course I am.” 

Alone again, Mark turned over the conversation with his mother in his mind. He couldn’t deny that meeting his colleagues still seemed a daunting prospect; he had, as of yet, been unable to return to work, having recollected little if any of his apparently distinguished legal career. He had, however, managed to remember Jeremy—one of his colleagues in chambers—when he’d dropped round earlier in the week to see how Mark was getting on. Interestingly, Magda, Jeremy’s wife, was apparently a great friend of Bridget’s—a coincidental fact that Mark found comforting and encouraging; if Magda knew Bridget well, she might offer some additional insight into the nature of their relationship, and as Bridget’s oldest friend, she seemed the most reliable source of information about Bridget. Perhaps if she and Jeremy were in attendance at Rebecca’s party, that might give him an opportunity to piece together more of his past, and Bridget’s place in it.

Leaning back in his seat, Mark had to smile at the turn of his thoughts; he was approaching this problem with what he could only assume were his “barrister instincts,” as his mother had termed them—seeking sound evidence before reaching a conclusion. Well, in any case, whatever that conclusion turned out to be, he hoped he reached it sooner rather than later.

* * *

#### Saturday 22 March

Mark rested his back against the wall in Rebecca’s packed living-room, absently swirling the scotch in his glass as his gaze wandered over the assembled guests. Aside from Jeremy, he hadn’t recognized a single person in attendance, and though this hardly surprised him, it did little to ease his discomfort. He’d hoped for an opportunity to chat with Magda, but one of the children had suddenly taken ill, obliging her to remain at home. Staring down into his nearly empty glass, Mark admitted to himself that he might have felt less alone in the throng had he been able to locate just one other familiar face; each time a flurry of activity signaled a new arrival, Mark lifted his head, his eyes seeking but never finding Bridget. He didn’t know what he’d expected; Rebecca’s dinner-party was hardly the appropriate setting to talk through everything that had happened between them over the last few days, and yet Mark couldn’t help imagining Bridget beside him—her hand tucked comfortably in his, anchoring him in this sea of confusion. He could almost feel the warmth of it, almost believe he sensed the brush of her fingertips against the back of his hand. In fact, he was certain now that he hadn’t been imagining it, and when he looked down, he discovered that someone had slipped a hand into his. Frowning, he raised his eyes to meet those of the person who had materialized at his side.

“I’m sorry if I startled you,” murmured Rebecca, smiling up into his face. “I’ve been trying to get your attention.”

“Forgive me,” said Mark. “I must have got lost in my own thoughts.”

“I shouldn’t have left you on your own,” she apologized.

“It’s all right,” Mark assured her. “I was. . .” He hesitated. “I was hoping to see Bridget.” For the merest instant, Mark wondered if the flash of irritation he saw in Rebecca’s eyes had been a trick of the light, for the look had passed away as suddenly as it had appeared. Before she could speak, however, another voice boomed across the room.

“Mark!” turning to face the man who’d rested a hand on his shoulder, Mark suddenly felt a wisp of memory flit across his mind from the weekend at Courchevel—chasing frantically after Bridget, who seemed, for some reason he couldn’t discern, to have attempted skiing down a slope without her skis, and the man standing before him—one of his colleagues—exclaiming, “that was the stupidest thing I’ve ever seen in my life!"

“Nigel,” he said finally. “You’ll have to forgive me; I didn’t immediately recognize you.”

“Quite all right,” said Nigel, clapping Mark on the shoulder again; Rebecca, he noticed, had withdrawn her hand from his but still stood solicitously observing the exchange. “It’s good to see you; you look well, all things considered. We’re all anxious to have you back in chambers, I can tell you.”

“Yes, well. . .” Mark shrugged.

“He’ll be as good as new before long, won’t you, Mark?” Rebecca trilled, stroking his arm. Despite her attentiveness, Mark began to feel a bit smothered, and something of his discomfort must have shown in his expression, because Rebecca discreetly stepped away with a smile. “Well, I’d better circulate,” she said brightly. 

“So, no Bridget this evening,” Nigel commented as Rebecca slipped away.

“No,” murmured Mark, noticing that Nigel’s gaze swiveled between him and the admittedly hypnotic sway of Rebecca’s hips as she moved across the room.

“I see,” said Nigel, waggling his eyebrows and taking a sip of his drink. “I did wonder—when we were all at Courchevel—I don’t, well, I’m not sure you remember.”

“It’s only the vaguest impression on my mind,” Mark admitted.

“Well,” Nigel dropped his voice, “of course, I could be wrong, but I had the impression things weren’t going all that well.”

Mark felt his chest tighten and took another sip of his own drink to try to ease the tension. “What gave you that impression?” he asked, relieved that his tone sounded neutral.

Nigel shrugged. “I don’t know; as I say, I might have got it wrong, but I thought, well, seeing as the pair of you were supposed to be on some romantic weekend getaway, I’d have thought you’d have spent more time together.”

“One would think so, yes,” agreed Mark, feeling the alcohol beginning to pool sickeningly in the pit of his stomach.

“Whenever I saw you though,” Nigel continued, “you were with Rebecca, and you seemed quite chummy. I don’t really know Bridget, mind you, but I’d have thought that wouldn’t have pleased her if it looked like someone else was trying to hook you. Maybe Bridget’s not the jealous type; I don’t know, but it didn’t look promising.”

“I don’t—that is, I’m not quite sure. . .” Mark stammered. Nigel’s version of the weekend did seem to confirm Rebecca’s, and as an objective bystander, Nigel wouldn’t have had any reason to manipulate the facts in Rebecca’s favor. If only Mark could just recall for himself what had happened. Finally, he said, “The truth is, Nigel, I don’t precisely know--”

“Mark!” Rebecca suddenly breezed over again and linked her arm through his. “Mark, darling, come and make the rounds; everyone’s been dying to say hello! You’ll excuse us, Nigel, won’t you?” Before Nigel could reply, Mark found himself being whisked away. 

Whether from the alcohol, his lingering memory loss, his distracted thoughts about Bridget, or some combination of the three, Mark found it impossible to follow the string of conversations that wound their way around his brain until they became an incoherent tangle of words. Finally, just when he thought his head might explode under the excessive pressure, he saw Jeremy making his way toward him. Until that moment, Mark had felt rather lost at sea with only Rebecca to rescue him from intercepting awkward questions about Bridget’s absence. When asked, she’d explained only that Bridget couldn’t make it, and Mark dimly registered that this sounded like a suitably vague response to deflect further questions. Everyone he’d spoken to, like Nigel, seemed to entertain the impression that Mark and Bridget were, at least formally, still a couple, though they seemed unsurprised to see him, by all appearances, declaring the shift in his affections toward Rebecca. Of course, the fact that Rebecca had all but surgically attached herself to Mark’s arm largely accounted for this notion. Despite his endeavor to shrug off his disappointment when Bridget hadn’t made an appearance, he had to wonder whether or not the unresolved issues between them explained her decision to decline Rebecca’s invitation. Was she still angry with him over his accusation about her relationship with Daniel, or—Mark tried to ignore the way his stomach clenched at the thought—was she quietly and graciously making space for Rebecca?

Mercifully, Jeremy’s voice broke into Mark’s thoughts. “How are you holding up?” For answer, Mark offered a weary smile and gestured with his empty glass. Jeremy chuckled. “I could do with a top-off myself,” he agreed.

“God, Jeremy, I’m glad you’re here,” Mark said as the pair of them retreated into a quiet corner, drinks in hand.

“You look a bit overwhelmed,” Jeremy admitted. “I almost didn’t come myself, honestly, but Magda couldn’t bear the thought of you alone in this throng, so I thought I’d just make an appearance.”

“I’m grateful,” Mark murmured. “Especially since. . .”

“Bridget’s not here?” Jeremy supplied.

Mark took a generous swallow of scotch and nodded. “Jeremy, I--” he paused, took another fortifying sip of his drink, and tried again. “I need to ask you something. I’m still trying to reconstruct a lot of things from before the accident. Was I—that is, how serious were things, with Bridget, I mean?”

Jeremy frowned; then chuckled. “Crikey, Mark, Magda is my wife; Bridget is one of her oldest friends. You can’t put me in a position like that.”

“I was asking a simple question, for purposes of clarification,” said Mark.

“Simple question?” Jeremy shook his head, still laughing. “If you had any idea how many hours my wife spends on the phone with Bridget dissecting your every syllable under a microscope, you’d never call that a ‘simple question’.” Mark sighed; a vague buzzing sensation had begun creeping through his brain, but he ignored it and tossed back the remainder of his drink.

“Jeremy, please. I’m in earnest. Tell me something—anything. Please.”

Jeremy shrugged. “Okay, well, after your divorce, your mum sort of, shall we say, nudged you toward Bridget.”

“Hmm, yes, I did get the impression Bridget’s mother and mine were Hell-bent on relentlessly flinging us at each other’s heads until we gave in.”

“more or less,” said Jeremy. “You actually swore at one point that if your mum ever mentioned Bridget again you’d threaten to go to the Sunday People and claim she’d abused you as a child with a bicycle pump.”

“How then, precisely, did we wind up together? I mean, Bridget gave me the whole backstory about how I intervened with her mother’s. . . situation, which seemed to set things going for us, but if we were so dead set against each other, what happened?”

“That’s just it,” said Jeremy. “I’m not sure you were so dead set against her; she was starting to grow on you, I think. I think there was some debacle with a missed date and you being stood up by her massive hair-dryer. Did she tell you about that?”

“Ah, of course.” Mark’s pensive expression relaxed into a smile.

“Typical Bridget,” said Jeremy, “but once circumstances threw you together, you got on really well, and you seemed pretty keen on each other. The thing about Bridget is that she tends to, well, overanalyze things. You two weren’t going out for very long, and she sort of started breaking the relationship down bit by bit to check if it was functioning before you’d really had a chance to build it up in the first place.”

Mark nodded. “Rebecca said something to that effect—about her trying to pin down some exact science for the perfect relationship because she can’t work out what she actually wants.”

“Well,” said Jeremy, drumming his fingertips against his thigh as he considered, “that might be true, I suppose, but the really important thing you need to understand about Bridget is that beneath all of her self-help and her calorie-counting and her mad relationship theories, she has a good heart.”

“I think so too,” Mark said softly. “I just wish I fully understood what went wrong. I know there was some misunderstanding at Rebecca’s house-party a few weeks ago, though the narrative seems pretty tangled. Still, Nigel seemed to think we hadn’t been getting on well at Courchevel.”

“Hadn’t you worked out that you were on your way to see Bridget the night of your accident?” Jeremy asked.

“yes, to patch things up, I think, but I thought we’d just had a terrible row; I didn’t realize we’d actually split up. Everyone seems to think I’ve been spending a lot of time with Rebecca, and they’re all under the impression that I’ve either left Bridget for her or am on the point of leaving her. I think—though I can’t remember it clearly enough yet—that Bridget had seen me with Rebecca the night before we argued; at least, that’s what she accused me of anyway.”

Jeremy winced. “that does sound a bit incriminating,” he admitted. His eyes swiveled to Rebecca as she fluttered between her guests, her long curtain of hair swinging about her shoulders with each toss of her head, her laughter tinkling above the murmur of conversation like a pair of windchimes. “You could just shag the both of them until you’ve worked out which one you really fancy.,” he suggested. “I envy you a bit, actually.” Mark must have failed to conceal his incredulity, because Jeremy added hastily, “Christ, Mark, I was joking. Seriously though,” he whispered, “don’t mention that to Magda.”

“no,” agreed Mark. “I should THINK NOT.”  


“It’s quite the sticky wicket,” continued Jeremy. “Two attractive women, one choice.”

“I’m sure I don’t need to caption the obvious,” said Mark, “but you’re not helping.”

Jeremy laughed. “No, probably not.” The two men lapsed into silence, and Mark found his gaze drifting to Rebecca again; he didn’t know if the alcohol had begun to dissolve his inhibitions, but he suddenly noticed the way the clingy black material of her cocktail dress swished against her thighs and the sleek pair of pumps that accentuated her long legs. Though he knew he’d regret it the next morning, Mark decided that he needed another drink, if for no other reason than to drown the conflicting thoughts that bobbed around inside his head. 

Mark didn’t know how much time had elapsed when he glanced round to discover that the party had gradually dwindled, leaving only himself and Rebecca. She’d attached herself to him for the remainder of the evening, practically shepherding him around the room and coaxing him to mingle, and the consumption of far more alcohol than was prudent made Mark grateful for the warm weight of Rebecca’s arm linked through his. When he found himself suddenly alone with her, Mark dropped wearily onto the sofa, realizing that Rebecca’s arm might have been the only thing keeping him upright. As he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, he felt the brush of her fingertips against his knee.

“Mark, are you all right?” He nodded, unable to speak; words had begun to feel thick and slippery on his tongue, dissolving before he could catch hold of them. “I’m sure the night’s been a bit overwhelming for you,” she continued, “but I think it did you good; talking with Jeremy and Nigel seemed to relax you, anyway. Did it help you to remember anything?”

“A bit,” he managed. The conversations he’d had with both Jeremy and Nigel had begun to congeal in the back of his mind, and Bridget seemed to be hovering somewhere in the center of that mist, just beyond his reach.

As if reading his thoughts, Rebecca said, “I’m sorry Bridget wasn’t able to be here tonight; I thought she might have made an effort if it was so important to you.”

Again Mark nodded. “I don’t know what I’m doing any more,” he murmured finally. A numbing, drunken haze had begun to seep into his senses, but he dimly registered the warmth of Rebecca’s palm against his cheek and felt her shift closer to him.

“It’s okay, Mark,” Rebecca whispered. “I know these last few weeks have been difficult for you; I know you’re feeling hurt and confused, but you’re not alone. Please know that.”

“Rebecca,” said Mark, blinking and struggling to pull her into focus, “what do you want?” For answer, she leaned in closer and cupped his face in her hands. “Rebecca, I. . .”

“Shh,” she said, laying a finger over his lips; then her mouth was on his, warm and soft and tantalizingly sweet, and the remaining ounce of common sense that hadn’t yet been dissolved in scotch melted into the fog that swirled around him. He parted his lips, and she slid her arms up around his neck, pressing herself between his legs as she deepened the kiss.

“Stay,” she purred, her breath hot against Mark’s cheek.

“I don’t think,” he began, but Rebecca gently shushed him with another kiss.

“I don’t think you’re in any condition to leave anyway.” Mark managed only an incoherent noise that might have easily passed for either protest or ascent, and he let his head drop heavily onto Rebecca’s shoulder as his eyes closed.

* * *

#### Sunday 23 March

When Mark woke the following morning, the first sensation he registered was the throbbing in his temples. Squeezing his eyes shut again, he thought he might quite like to just lie there quietly until death came to claim him; yet as full consciousness returned, the memory of where he was slammed into him with the force of an omnibus. With tremendous effort, he rolled onto his side, noticing the rumpled sheets beside him and the pillow that still held signs of an indentation, and he buried his face in his hands with a groan. Bloody Hell, what in the name of arse had he done?

“Mark?” Hearing a voice, he turned to see Rebecca entering the room, bright-eyed and fresh-faced.

Mark sat up, felt the room spin wildly out of control, and slumped back against the pillows. “Rebecca, what--”

“Here,” she said, smiling and handing him a cup of coffee, which he accepted gratefully. “How are you feeling?” she asked, perching on the edge of the bed and rubbing a soothing hand up and down his arm.

“Like five kinds of shit, quite honestly,” Mark admitted, wincing at the light that jabbed sharp, accusatory fingers straight into the back of his skull. After a fortifying sip of coffee, he mustered the courage to look her in the eye. “Rebecca, I—I’m sorry. Last night, I don’t—I was, well. . .”

“You were drunk,” she supplied. “You weren’t thinking; it shouldn’t have happened; yes, I thought I might get some sort of guilt-laden monologue like that. Well,” she folded her arms and glared at him, “I’m not falling for it, Mark. Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me we wouldn’t have wound up here eventually anyway? Maybe last night you let down your inhibitions sooner than you might otherwise have done, but I don’t believe for a second that you were acting on some inebriated impulse.” With a sinking feeling in his stomach that had nothing to do with the hangover, Mark closed his eyes and lowered his head into his hands, trying to pull his memories of last night into focus even as they began to drip through his fingers. He dimly recalled the brush of Rebecca’s palm against his cheek; her mouth on his; her hands, warm and soft, tugging gently on his; the dark bedroom; cool, crisp sheets; then, like a skipping film-reel, suddenly waking up in her bed.

“Rebecca,” he said finally, “what exactly happened here last night?” She considered him for a moment, lips pursed; then tilted her head toward the bed and the empty but clearly just-vacated space beside him. “Rebecca, I--”

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry, Mark,” she interrupted. “Don’t pretend you didn’t want this.”

“want what, precisely?” demanded Mark. “I’m not even entirely sure what happened here, aside from the fact that we clearly started snogging while I was extremely drunk, and now I’ve just woken up in your bed without any clear memory of how I got here.” Glancing down at his bare chest, he added, “I suppose, however, that I can make an educated guess.”

“No, Mark, that’s not how it happened at all,” said Rebecca, leaning into wrap her arms around him. “the fact that you don’t remember it doesn’t mean whatever you felt at the time wasn’t real; don’t invalidate or question your emotions just because you’re feeling confused. I felt something between us,” she whispered, tilting her head up to look directly into his eyes, “and I thought you did too.”

Mark sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said gently. “I didn’t mean to trivialize your feelings or my own part in whatever happened between us. I can’t evade all culpability for my own actions; regardless of whether or not I was fully in command of my faculties last night, I still bear responsibility for my behavior.” When Rebecca opened her lips to protest, he held up a hand to silence her. “The fact is that, even without the aid of alcohol, I’ve been terribly conflicted about my feelings during these last few weeks, and it isn’t fair to you if I make any commitment until I’ve worked through everything in my mind.”

Rebecca frowned. “And Bridget?”

“I’ve made no promises to Bridget,” Mark replied diplomatically. (‘Particularly after our last conversation,’ he added silently). Aloud he continued, “Since you mentioned Bridget, everyone I spoke with last night seemed to be under the impression that our relationship is about to go up in smoke, if it hasn’t done so already. Nigel at least gave me a similar version of the weekend at Courchevel to yours, and…” His voice suddenly trailed off as a fragment of memory slid into place with such precision he almost heard a click. He scrubbed his hands over his face, took a deep breath, and slowly released it. He sat still for several moments, allowing his thoughts to materialize into a clear picture before speaking. 

“Rebecca,” he said finally, turning to face her, “why did you lie to me?”

Rebecca blinked. “Lie to you? Mark, why would you think—you must be mistaken.”

Mark shook his head. “You lied to me, or, more precisely, to Bridget, in front of me, when we were at Courchevel. I remember now. Why?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mark.”

“Actually, I think you do,” he replied. “You suggested I take Bridget to Courchevel when our paths crossed in New York; then when we ran into each other, you went on and on about how it was such a coincidence to see us there, but it wasn’t, was it?”

Rebecca shook her head, eyes wide. “No, Mark, you misunderstood; I only meant it was a coincidence seeing you, not that you were there. I was delighted we ran into each other, really, but I never expected to, and I certainly didn’t try to orchestrate some chance encounter.”

“I think we both know that’s not true,” said Mark. “You didn’t want Bridget to know we’d met in New York, and you didn’t want her to know you’d suggested I bring her to Courchevel.”

Rebecca folded her arms and glared at him. “Well, you obviously didn’t tell her yourself,” she snapped, “so you weren’t being entirely forthright either.”

“You’re confusing two entirely different scenarios,” Mark countered. “I simply forgot to mention it; you were being deliberately misleading, and considering that you claim Bridget as a friend, I can’t think why you’d have any reason to do that. If you were merely being helpful, what motive could you have had for keeping that from her?”

“I didn’t—I wasn’t—oh, for Heaven’s sake!” Eyes flashing with anger now, Rebecca leapt to her feet and stamped her foot impatiently. “Mark, she’s not good enough for you! Surely you can see that.”

“I think that’s up to me to decide, don’t you?” said Mark.  
“Well, I certainly wasn’t going to stand there and watch you eat your heart out over her when she doesn’t appreciate you. You and I are much better suited for each other, Mark, and if you’d just give us a chance, I’m sure you’ll come to see it too.”

“I’m not sure how I could,” said Mark, “when I’m in love with Bridget.” The instant he spoke the words, Mark felt as if a light had suddenly switched on deep inside him, the shadows around him dissipating as memories of Bridget rushed back: Bridget offering him stuffed olives and silver-skinned onions at Una and Geoffrey’s turkey curry buffet; Bridget insisting the essential oil-burner she’d got Mark’s parents for their ruby wedding could take in milk; Bridget turning up at Una and Geoffrey’s in that ridiculous bunny girl outfit; Bridget snuggled so perfectly in the crook of his arm after the first time they made love, the sweet taste of her laughter making him giddy as he kissed her breathless. Then one final memory from Courchevel, as sharp as if it were replaying in front of him: Rebecca flouncing away across the snow like an ice-queen, Bridget looking up at him, the question she was afraid to ask reflected so transparently in her clear, blue eyes, and Mark pulling her close, his insides flooded with warmth despite the chill as he whispered, ‘I love you.’

“Rebecca,” he said, pulling himself back to the present, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I should go.”

“So that’s it then?”

He nodded. “I’m not being honest with you, or with myself, if I stay, and frankly, I don’t know how you could expect me to stay when you haven’t been honest with me."

“Mark, wait.” Rebecca rested a hand on his arm, her eyes wide and pleading. “You can’t possibly imagine I’d intentionally do anything to deceive you; I know it looks that way, but it’s just because you’re confused. Once you’ve fully recovered—when your mind is clearer, you’ll see it in a different light, I’m sure. Let’s talk about it. We can work through everything together. I’m sure we can. Think, Mark. Think about what you’re doing.”

“All I’ve done these last few weeks is think,” said Mark. “I don’t need to think; I know.”

“Mark, please. Don’t you think all of this happened for a reason? Don’t you think we have a chance to make a go of it? Last night--”

“Rebecca,” said Mark, fixing her with a piercing stare, “last night—the two of us—what really happened?”

“You make it sound so arbitrary,” she protested. “We’ve been getting to know each other for weeks, Mark.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he replied.

Rebecca placed her hands on her hips, eyes snapping defiantly. “Does it really matter? You’re here now, aren’t you? Doesn’t that count for something? What difference does it make what ‘happened,’ as you put it?”

In response, Mark gave her a sad smile. “That’s what I thought,” he murmured. With a sigh, he turned from her and slid from bed, careful to keep his back to her as he dressed.

“Mark,” she said, “don’t do this. You’re making a terrible mistake.”

“Actually,” he said, turning to face her again, “it’s about time I got something right for a change.” 

* * *

When Mark arrived home, he went straight upstairs, downed several paracetamol, and stood for several minutes beneath a hot shower before collapsing into bed. When he resurfaced, the sun had long since set, and the nauseating pounding in his temples had reduced to a dull ache. The weight of that heavy, black stone at the center of his chest, however, remained.

“Ah, there you are,” said Elaine when he appeared downstairs, rising from the sofa and embracing him. “I was beginning to worry. I was about to come up and look in on you in a few minutes.”

“Thank you, Mother.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked, resuming her seat and patting the space beside her. Mark shrugged. “Well, you look terrible.”

“Then that should answer your question,” he replied.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Elaine prompted.

“Not particularly,” he said, thinking of the previous evening’s events and cringing at the idea of reliving them with his mother.

“I take it,” Elaine conjectured, “you didn’t have the chance to speak to Bridget last night?"

“She wasn’t there at all.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” murmured Elaine, “but perhaps it was for the best. That mightn’t have been the best place to talk through everything. You’re far better off speaking to her privately.”

Mark nodded. “I suppose so, but. . .”He paused, the lump in his throat obstructing the words.

“Mark,” said Elaine, resting a hand on his cheek, “what’s wrong?”

He sighed. “Mother, I’ve made a terrible mistake, and I don’t know how I’m going to fix it. Bridget—Bridget was right about Rebecca. I don’t know why I didn’t realize it outright, but last night, without Bridget, she had a pretty clear field, and she tried to. . .” His voice trailed off, and he punctuated his sentence with a sigh. “I don’t know why I didn’t see it.”

Elaine tried not to smile at her son’s realization, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “The man’s always the last to know,” she said.

“Mother, please. I feel guilty enough as it is.”

Elaine patted his hand. “I’m sorry, dear, but I’m afraid it’s true. I wasn’t acquainted with Rebecca for five minutes before I could see she was set on getting you away from Bridget, and I’m sure you’d never have pursued her of your own accord.”

“Certainly not,” agreed Mark, “and I thought Bridget knew that, but I shouldn’t have been so dismissive. I can see now how the situation must have looked from her point of view.”

“Mark,” Elaine said hesitantly, “I didn’t want to ask again, because I didn’t want to give you more to think about than you felt ready to handle, but do you remember what happened that night—the night of he accident? Do you remember what you and Bridget quarreled about?”

Mark rubbed his forehead, thinking. “Yes,” he answered finally. “I think I do. We ended the weekend at Rebecca’s on a bad note, but you know all about that already, I suppose.” Elaine nodded. “Well,” he continued, “we left a lot of things unsaid. I knew the moment I pulled away after leaving her off at her flat that I should have just tried to explain, but I couldn’t even tell what I wanted to explain. We were both so confused that I thought anything I said would only have complicated matters further, so I decided I should just take some time to sort things out in my mind.”

“And did you?” prompted Elaine.

“Yes. I think I’d begun to realize what Rebecca’s game was, finally. Had I recognized her manipulations for what they were, I might have been more guarded. It seems ridiculous to admit it now, but at the time, I thought she was just being friendly. Of course, from Bridget’s perspective, it looked as if I were accepting Rebecca’s advances, which I suppose I was, if tacitly. You’d think,” he added with a half-smile, “I’d have learned my lesson with Natasha. I’d got entangled in something without saying a word, but with a woman that determined, a man’s only got to stand still and let himself be reeled in. I mightn’t even have minded it so much before I realized I wanted something more—before I realized I wanted Bridget.” He fell silent, pulling into focus the memories of Bridget he’d recently recovered; of the events of the last few weeks; of his own foolishness. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he continued, “I tried ringing her several times that week, but to no avail, and then it just all went straight to Hell.”

* * *

#### Flashback, Friday 28 February

Mark rubbed a hand across his eyes and took several deep breaths of the chilly, evening air as he left his office, cursing himself for agreeing to meet his colleagues for drinks. He certainly longed to drown the day’s tension in alcohol, but in his present mood, mingling with his colleagues seemed far less appealing than taking himself home, opening a bottle of scotch, and getting silently and solitarily drunk. Under happier circumstances, he might have found relief and comfort in Bridget’s company, but he knew she’d gone to Miss Saigon with her parents and the Alconburys, and in any case, her apparent unwillingness to return his phone calls boded ill for his success in attempting to reconcile with her. When the evening’s business had concluded earlier than Mark had anticipated, he’d decided to ring Bridget again on the off chance that she’d changed her mind about Miss Saigon; if she had, he’d forego meeting his colleagues and head straight to her flat instead to settle matters between them once and for all. He’d calmly and logically talk through the misunderstanding or, failing that, he’d simply make love to her until she could no longer think clearly. The former was, of course, the more sensible, gentlemanly, proper barrister way to go about mending fences; however, in this instance, Mark wasn’t above using any means available in negotiating a settlement that would satisfy both parties.

Now, swallowing down the nervous lump in his throat, Mark reached for his mobile and dialed Bridget. To his disappointment, though not his surprise, the call went straight to her answerphone, and suddenly, as he opened his lips, the words of his carefully-prepared speech dissolved.

“Hi, Bridget,” he heard himself faltering. “It’s Mark. You don’t seem to be returning my calls. I really think, whatever, I . . . I’m really. . . we-at least I feel-I owe it to you to be friends, so I hope you’ll. . . we’ll. Oh God, anyway, give me a ring sometime soon. If you want to.” Heaving a deep, dejected sigh, Mark dropped the phone into his overcoat pocket and made his way down the street, craving solitude and yet dreading the silence of his empty house. 

As the evening dragged on, Mark wished with increasing misery that he’d gone home; listening to and occasionally murmuring mechanically as the others debated politics, he had half a mind to stand up and start spouting off Bridget’s views on the Labour party and socialism and the working people standing together. Of course, speaking in favor of a Labour government in present company would have been about as safe as tossing a hand grenade into the middle of the bar, but Bridget wouldn’t have counted that consequence; she’d have spoken up and said just what she thought, and that, Mark realized, was one of the reasons he’d fallen in love with her. Ever since he’d started going out with Bridget, his life had seemed more. . . well, fun—certainly less predictable. Glancing at his watch, he saw it was nearly 10.00—a reasonable time to make his excuses.

“Mark?” At the sound of his name, he turned and saw Rebecca making her way toward him. “Mark!” she exclaimed, leaning in to peck his cheek. “It’s so lovely to see you!”

Mark blinked. “Rebecca, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, Nigel rang and invited me; I can’t tell you how thrilled I was when he told me you’d be one of the party.”

Mark suddenly wondered how lost in his own brooding thoughts he must have been not to have noticed Rebecca all evening. “Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t realize you were here.”

“No,” murmured Rebecca. “You’ve been looking preoccupied, but where’s Bridget?” she asked, her eyes widening as if she’d only just noticed the discrepancy.

“She—well—she couldn’t make it this evening,” said Mark, lowering his eyes.

“Oh,” simpered Rebecca, manufacturing a crestfallen expression. “I’d have liked to see her, dear girl; you’ll give her my love, won’t you?”

“I—yes, of course,” he stammered.

Before he could make his escape, Rebecca laid a hand on his arm and looked up into his face. “Mark,” she said gently, “is something wrong? You look upset.”

“No,” he replied hastily. “No, it’s only—well, it’s been a rather trying week. I think I’m just going to say goodnight, if you’ll excuse me.”

“You poor dear,” cooed Rebecca, rubbing her hand up and down his arm. “Well,” she added in a conspiratorial whisper, “if you’re going, then I can make my excuses too, but are you sure you’re all right?” Mark hesitated. “You can trust me, Mark,” said Rebecca. “You look like you could use someone to talk to. I’ll tell you; let’s share a taxi, and you can tell me all about it.”

After ringing Bridget and leaving his terribly tongue-tied message on her answerphone, Mark had decided to walk to the bar to meet his colleagues, and he was longing to clear his head with fresh air and solitude on the walk back to chambers to collect his car. Rebecca, as it turned out, had other ideas; she was apparently on her way to meet another group of friends not far from his office, and why, she suggested, couldn’t he go as far as her destination with her and then walk the remaining few blocks to chambers? Tired, dejected, and feeling the pressure of a headache beginning to build behind his eyes, Mark acquiesced, and after taking their leave of the others, the pair of them departed.

As they made their way down the street in search of a taxi, Rebecca gestured as if to link her arm through Mark’s, but then seemed to think better of it; in the close quarters of the taxi, however, she abandoned all pretense of polite distance and rested a hand on his thigh, sitting so close to him that her leg brushed against his.

“How’s Bridget? I was surprised not to see her with you tonight.”

“Were you?” Mark wondered how he could discreetly remove Rebecca’s hand from his leg, but when he reached out, she closed her fingers over his in what she evidently considered a sympathetic squeeze.

“Of course.”

“Rebecca,” said Mark, grasping his courage in both hands, “can I speak plainly?” Rebecca flashed him another of her dazzling smiles and actually fluttered her lashes at him; Christ, he’d been an idiot. He’d known Bridget was jealous of Rebecca’s attentions, but only now, confined with her in such close proximity, her hair all but tickling his face as it swung forward with the movement of her head, did Mark realize the justification for that jealousy.

“Mark, you know you can trust me,” she said breathily.

“Right then. I’ll just come straight out with it. Did you tell your nephew that Bridget and I were in the process of splitting up?”

Rebecca frowned. “Did he tell you that?” she asked.

“No, Bridget did; she said—bloody Hell, I can’t even make sense of it—she said St John said you’d told him that Bridget and I were splitting up.” Dear god, it sounded like an even more bewildering catalog of Chinese whispers than it had when he’d heard the tale from Bridget. “It’s all hearsay, of course,” he admitted, adding with a sheepish grin, “not the most reliable evidence, I’m afraid.”

“No, not really,” agreed Rebecca with a tinkling laugh. “And I’m sure it was all some misunderstanding on St John’s Part. Really, Mark, I don’t know what I could have said to put such a notion into his head, although I can’t say I’m surprised he’d leap to a conclusion like that on his own; he’s very impressionable.”

Mark nodded. “So you never told him anything about my relationship with Bridget?”

“Of course not!” exclaimed Rebecca. “I mean, well. . .” She hesitated, lowering her eyes.

“Yes?” Mark prompted.

“I don’t know; it’s only the vaguest impression, and of course I could be entirely wrong, but things just seemed a bit off with the two of you; that was why I went to such trouble to make sure you enjoyed yourself. Maybe St John saw us chatting together in the grounds, or at dinner, and just made the wrong assumption. I’d never have presumed to make a statement like that. Please believe me, Mark,” she concluded in an earnest whisper. Mark turned over Rebecca’s words in his mind, unsure what troubled him more—the fact that Rebecca believed his relationship with Bridget was in danger of hitting the rocks, or that Bridget could be so easily persuaded to believe it based on an off-hand comment from someone she barely knew. 

* * *

“So,” Mark finished, leaning his head wearily on his hand, “when Bridget saw me getting out of that taxi with Rebecca, she assumed we were together, and I suppose it must have looked like that. After everything that happened, I can’t say I entirely blame her, but if she’d just returned one of my calls, we could have talked through everything. When Rebecca suggested we share a taxi, I thought I’d just leave her off, walk the rest of the way to chambers, and pick up my car. It was entirely innocent.”

Elaine nodded. “I know, dear,” she murmured, “but I’m not the one you’ve got to convince.”

“Yes, I know,” said Mark, rising and beginning to pace. “I tried to explain everything to Bridget, but between the fact that what she’d seen the night before was still so fresh in her mind and the fact that my phone call obviously interrupted a drunken, feminist, boyfriend-bashing summit, it didn’t seem the most appropriate time to make my case. I thought perhaps I’d just give her a bit of space and ring her again the next day, when she’d had time to calm down, but the moment I put down the phone, I knew I’d never be able to settle. I don’t know what I was thinking; I suppose I wasn’t thinking, but the next thing I knew, I was on my way to her flat, and then. . .” Mark’s voice broke off as a rush of sounds and images that he dimly registered as distorted memories of the accident flooded his mind. His stomach clenched, his head swam, and he began to tremble. As the strength in his legs gave way beneath him and he dropped to his knees, he heard his mother’s voice from a great distance, as if he were being pulled slowly under water.

His next conscious sensation was of lying on his side, head swimming, stomach churning. . He lay perfectly still for several moments, trying to pull his thoughts into focus. He’d been talking to his mother, sifting through the memories of the events leading up to his accident; then he’d experienced that dizzying, disorienting rush of light and sound, and then, he supposed, he must have lost consciousness. Christ, what had come over him? Last night—a scotch-soaked snog turned near-shag with Rebecca—discovering himself in her bed—recovered memories of Bridget—all would have been more than enough turmoil and confusion for any person in their right mind. Add to that suddenly remembering flashes of the accident that had caused a traumatic brain injury, and no wonder he’d collapsed under the pressure.

“Mark?” He felt a cool hand on his cheek as he threatened to slide back into the dark water lapping at the edges of his brain. Opening his eyes, he saw his mother bending over him, her face tight with concern. “Mark, are you all right?”

“I. . . don’t know,” he replied shakily. “I think I started to remember what happened—the accident—and then. . . I must have. . .” he brushed a hand across his eyes, trying to clear his vision. “How long was I out?”

“Just a moment or two,” said Elaine. “God, but you did give me a fright.” Pushing himself slowly into a sitting posture, Mark noticed, perhaps for the first time, the lines of tension and exhaustion etched into his mother’s face. How could he have taken for granted her ability to cope with the aftermath of his accident? He’d taken such comfort in her company, reveling in those rare moments of tenderness between them. Finding that the room had ceased revolving, Mark stood slowly and made his way back to the sofa.

“I’m all right now, I think,” he said as Elaine stood beside him, still regarding him apprehensively, “Mother, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you.”

Elaine gave him a weary smile in return. “That’s what mothers do, dear. We worry.”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think about how the events of these last few weeks have affected you.”

“Mark, I know what you’re thinking,” said Elaine, folding her arms and fixing him with a defiant stare, “and you can just put it out of your head. You’ve recovered remarkably well, but if you’re about to try to convince me that I’ve done enough, you’re wasting your time.”

“Five minutes ago, I might have disagreed with you, but I don’t think I can argue with you now. I don’t have the energy, in any case.” Leaning his head on his hand, he took a deep breath and slowly released it, trying to let the knots of tension in his chest unravel.

Elaine reached over and caressed his cheek with the back of her hand. “Mark, why don’t you go on back to bed? You’ll feel better after you’ve had a good sleep.”

“My problems are still going to be there in the morning, Mother,” he sighed.

“Precisely, so you can deal with them then.”

“I wish I knew what to do.”

“I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to eat something; then you’re going to go to bed and have a good, long sleep, and tomorrow you’re going to call Bridget.”

Mark lifted his head. “Do you really think I should?”

“yes,” Elaine said flatly; then added, “Mark, I’ve held my tongue long enough. You needed to piece your own life back together and work out how you feel, and I didn’t want to influence your decisions, but I can’t bear to see you torturing yourself, or Bridget, for that matter. That girl is the best thing that’s ever happened to you, and I’m not going to stand here while you watch her walk away without a fight. If you love her, show her.”

“How?” Mark wondered.

Elaine leaned in close, wrapped her arms around him, and held him to her. “Tell her how you feel, Mark—everything you feel. Tell her what’s in your heart.”

Mark looked up at his mother, eyes pleading. “And if she doesn’t feel the same?”

Elaine pressed a kiss to his forehead. “You’ll only get an answer if you ask the question.”


	6. How Ardently I Admire and Love You

> I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun.- Jane Austen, Pride and Prejudice

#### Bridget, Thursday 27 March

Weight: 12 st (consisting entirely of chocolate).  
Calories: 6 million (approx.).  
Alcohol units: 5 (v.g).  
Cigarettes: 26 (purely medicinal, to calm nerves).  
Number of times have phoned Mark Darcy: 0 (Hurrah! Have mastered art of self-restraint!)  
Number of obsessive thoughts about phoning Mark Darcy: 3000 (abnormal).  
Number of times Mark Darcy has phoned: 3 (am not only person in world who obsesses, obvs; Mark clearly exhibiting alarming obsessive-compulsive behaviors).  
Number of times replayed answerphone messages from Mark Darcy: 73 (admittedly slightly obsessive, though nowhere near inevitable slide toward insanity).

#### 7.30 PM

Ugh. Brain gone completely to mush from over-thinking complex life problems, e.g. feelings about Mark, his accident, Rebecca bloody jellyfishing her way into everything, ETC. Mark has left several messages on my answerphone this week, but have been playing ice-queen and putting him off—on urban family’s advice, obvs, as cannot be trusted to make sensible, rational decisions where men are concerned because always wind up shagging them and then being left for stick insects or swishy-haired goddesses with legs like a baby giraffe. Last night Tom stuck a note to my phone scrawled in huge letters and multiple exclamation points for emphasis, “Don’t! Call! Mark! Darcy!!!!!” Except, now that am looking at it, noticed that Tom was v drunk when leaving note, and if tilt head slightly to the right, it actually appears to read “Call! Mark! Darcy!!!!!” Now left in doubt as do not want to break promise to friends, but how can one know what one has promised to do or not do when cannot make sense of written instructions? Besides, is not as if have signed note in own blood, so am not contractually obligated to do anything; should ask Mark, except that would involve calling him, and cannot remember any more if promised to call him or be cool, aloof, ice-queen. Maybe will just have v small glass of wine to clear head of cobwebs.

#### 7.45 PM

Right. Think best solution to all of life’s problems is simply to unplug phone and lose all contact with world. Then cannot get roped into performing acts of charity for one’s ex-boyfriend, particularly when approached by said ex-boyfriend’s mother. Just started searching through kitchen cupboards for clean wine glass when phone rang. Thought at first would just let it go to answerphone in case was Mark at the other end, since couldn’t work out whether was supposed to return his calls or continue giving him ice-queen silent treatment. Before could make up mind, however, hand shot toward phone as if by magnetic force or similar.

“Bridget Jones,” I said in v hoity-toity voice in manner of busy and important person, just in case was Mark Darcy. Had to let him see that I wasn’t sitting round my flat glugging wine and worrying about dying alone, but rather glamorous socialite/career woman in television with many demands on self’s time.

“Hello, Bridget, this is Elaine Darcy. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“Oh!” I squeaked. “Hi! Um, no, not at all! It’s lovely to hear from you!” I gabbled while sirens whirred in head: ‘Something’s happened to Mark. He’s had a stroke, or gone missing, or wandered off and fallen into the Thames or something.’ “Is Mark okay?” I asked, suddenly seized with guilt over not returning his calls; if he’d died without knowing I love him—not that—I mean, I did love him, but now everything’s got so tangled up in confusing web that Rebecca has woven round us like evil spider.

“He’s fine, dear,” Elaine assured me. “He’s been doing really well, in fact. We had a bit of a fright on Sunday when he began to remember flashes of the accident, but I think he’s finally turned a corner. I heard him on the phone to Jeremy the other day discussing details of a case and some UN report as if nothing had happened, and now his memories seem to have returned, he’s very anxious to be back in chambers.”

“Oh, that’s—that’s great!” I said, glad at least that Mark is alive and accounted for.

“Yes,” agreed Elaine. “He seems to have made a full recovery; he had another follow-up appointment with the neurologist this afternoon. He may never clearly remember the accident, but everything else seems to have come back, and as soon as he feels ready, he should be able to return to work. I’d like to convince him to take just one more week to recover his strength; I don’t think he fully appreciates how much these last few weeks have taken out of him, physically as well as mentally and emotionally. You know Mark.”

“Yes,” I murmured, smiling in spite of myself. “so you’ll be heading back to Grafton Underwood then, I suppose?” Then suddenly, before I could stop the words from leaving my mouth, I added, “I know Mark seems to be doing okay, but if he needs anything, I’m around.” Gah! What was I thinking? Yes, so around that I’ve not returned any of his messages during the last week.

“Oh, Bridget, you’re a dear,” Elaine said warmly. “That’s actually the reason I’m calling; I know it’s a bit of an imposition, but the truth is, I’m still concerned about him. He’s only just begun to really feel like himself again, and I don’t want him doing too much too soon. His work especially places so much strain on him, and you know how involved he can get. He needs to look after himself, but I’m worried that, well. . .”

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” I offered in small, sheep’s voice that sounded thoroughly unconvincing.

“Yes, well, the thing is, I wondered—I know how terribly busy you are, Bridget.” (Hurrah! Managed to convey aura of busy, important person with voice). “I don’t want to trouble you, but I thought, perhaps, if you had a moment to spare at the weekend, you could just pop over and look in on Mark. You’d be doing me a tremendous favor.”

“Oh, well. . .” I hesitated. On one hand, going round to check on Mark would involve actually seeing Mark, and have not quite worked out whether or not can manage to be in same room with him without either shagging him or chucking things at his head. On the other, seems like terrible, inhumane thing to abandon him in his hour of need; I might be pissed off at him, but really don’t want Mark Darcy to be eaten by an Alsatian.

“I’d be happy to,” I said finally.

“Thank you, dear,” murmured Elaine. 

“You’re welcome.”

“Oh, and Bridget?”

“Yes?”

“Just one more thing.”

“Of course,” I said, suddenly wishing I weren’t such a nice person.

“don’t mention a word of this to Mark. He’d be terribly upset if he thought I didn’t think him capable of looking after himself.”  
Right. Essentially have just been asked to spy on ex-boyfriend by ex-boyfriend’s mother. Entirely normal. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone. What could possibly go wrong?

#### Friday 28 March

Weight: 14 st (guilt and confusion now added to chocolate and minipizzas).  
Calories: 5000 (inevitable slide toward obese spinsterhood. Still, is not as if will ever have sex again, so might as well live large—literally).  
Alcohol units: 6? 9? 14? Oh, who cares? Cannot possibly calculate alcohol units with any accuracy when may or may not have swigged directly from wine bottle.  
Cigarettes: 12 (better).  
Thoughts about Mark Darcy: 200 (bad).  
Ways devised to have Rebecca killed accidentally on purpose: 52 (amazing, really, what one’s mind is capable of when one makes an effort).

#### 11.30 PM

“Fuckwit!” bellowed Sharon, stomping about my living-room and almost upending an entire bottle of wine onto the carpet in her rage. “Lousy, lying, two-faced bastard!”  
Called emergency summit this evening after telephone conversation with Magda, who rang to ask if I could baby-sit next Saturday and casually mentioned that Mark had gone to a dinner-party last weekend at bloody Rebecca’s! Bastard! Who is he to criticize me for sleeping with Daniel—when I’m not even bloody sleeping with Daniel—when he’s going off and cozying up to Rebecca? Magda only knew of it because she and Jeremy had been invited (why not me? Why? Why? Have clearly become social pariah abandoned by friends. Not that consider Rebecca a friend, of course, but entirely beside the point).

“But I can’t really tell you much, Bridge,” Magda had apologized. “I wasn’t there; Harry was running a fever, but I made Jeremy go because I was worried about Mark being there on his own.” Had felt huge, overwhelming rush of love for Magda until realized that she’d failed me. Honestly, what is point of having best friends if not to act as network of spies for self? Quizzed Magda, who in turn quizzed Jeremy about who else had been present, whether Mark was already there when everyone else arrived, and whether he stayed behind when everyone left. Jeremy was no help, obvs, because of all men having socially devolved to point where only thing they can do independently is switch on the telly.

“The only thing I can tell you,” said Magda, “is that Mark told Jeremy he was really disappointed not to see you there; it sounded like he’d gone because he expected you to be there.”

“Ha!” barked Sharon. “Likely story! Rebecca didn’t even bloody invite you, did she, Bridget?”

“No, she didn’t,” I mumbled, sloshing more wine into my glass.

“Hang on though,” said Jude, sounding surprisingly sober. “Maybe she told Mark she’d invited Bridget to lure him there under false pretenses.”

“You’re not sticking up for him now, are you?” snarled Sharon. “Where’s your sense of loyalty?”

“No, Shaz, listen,” Jude pleaded. “If Mark really didn’t know--”

“But how do we know he didn’t know?” argued Sharon.

“Bridget could ask him,” countered Jude.

“What, so he can lie?” Sharon snorted.

“But maybe--” Jude began.

“Will both of you just stop it?” I cried, suddenly bursting into tears, and then the girls were hovering round me, making sympathetic shushing noises and popping chocolates into my mouth.

“Oh God, Bridge, we’re so sorry,” murmured Jude, stroking my hair. “We didn’t mean anything.”

“It isn’t your fault, Bridge,” said Sharon. “It’s Mark-fucking-hoity-toity-poker-up-his-arse Darcy!”

Jude shot Sharon a quelling look and put an arm around me. “Listen, Bridge, didn’t Mark’s mum ask you to go round this weekend to look in on him?”

“Yes,” I sniffled.

“But she’s not going to,” growled Sharon.

“But Shaz,” I protested. “What if something happens to him?”

“Serve him fucking right,” she grumbled.

“You don’t really mean that,” I whispered, swiping at a tear.

Sharon sighed and flopped onto the sofa beside me. “I don’t know. This is all bloody Rebecca’s fault.”

Spent rest of evening drinking wine, eating chocolate, and plotting ways to kill Rebecca and make it look like an accident. Love the lovely friends. Ugh, though; feel a bit sick now. Oops.

#### Saturday 29 March

Weight: 8 st (relief making self feather-light).  
Calories: 0 (shagged off).  
Alcohol units: 1 (v.v.v.g!)  
Cigarettes: 0 (virtuous, saint-style person).  
Boyfriends: 1 (newly reinstated—hurrah!)  
Shags: 1 (Mmm. Love the lovely sex).

#### 5.00 PM

Right. Inner poise. Have decided, since Jude, Sharon, and tom have all gone off with Vile Richard, Simon, and Pretentious Jerome respectively and abandoned self in desert of the singletons that will just pop round to Mark’s. Promised Elaine, and anyway do not want Mark to succumb to fate of horrible, Alsatian-eaten death. Is not social call. Am concerned friend of the family, and besides, Mark gets lost in his own kitchen at the best of times, and do not want him to die in search of food. Will just search laundry basket for knickers—not that plan to sleep with Mark Darcy, obvs. Would be v unprofessional, un-Victorian-nurse-type thing to do.

#### 2.00 AM

Feel as if have just got off crazy, out-of-control roller-coaster. Have had v disturbing shock followed by overwhelming joy. Cannot possibly sleep now, so will just explain what happened. Woke suddenly a few minutes ago to find self not in own bed, but huge, fluffy, white thing like cloud or similar. Thought at first was dreaming until rolled over and brushed up against something—or someone—warm. Gah! There was someone in my bed—or not my bed! Who? Where? Why? Wondered if had been drugged and kidnapped in middle of night by sex maniac—or Garry the builder. Panicking, I shrieked and started to scramble from bed.

“Bridget? My God, are you all right? What’s the matter?” Suddenly found self blinking in pool of bright light while being pressed against very warm, very familiar chest.

“Mark?” I squeaked.

“Yes. Shh, it’s all right. What happened?”

Snuggled into the crook of his arm and rested my head against his chest—mmm, love Mark’s chest—warm and solid and strong and dependable, just like the rest of him. “Sorry,” I whispered. “I just, um, forgot where I was for a moment.”

Mark held me to him and kissed the top of my head. “You’re all right, love,” he murmured drowsily. “You’re with me. Everything’s fine. Go back to sleep now.”

Closed eyes and tried to get back to sleep, but felt so warm and lovely cuddling up to Mark that just wanted to lie beside him and let mind wander over the evening’s events. Decided to take courage in both hands and come round to check on Mark since had promised Elaine, and resolved to just stay for a few minutes, exchange pleasantries, and be on my way. Resolve crumbled, however, when Mark opened the door and stood before me, looking tall and gorgeous and adorably rumpled. Always experience strange, disorienting sensation on rare occasions that see Mark wearing anything other than his usual, crisp, business attire; have got so used to it that when actually see him in anything resembling casual clothes is as if he’s peeled off a layer of his skin.  
Saw Mark framed in the doorway, wearing a pair of old jeans and a sweater, his hair all rumpled and sticky-uppy as if he’d just run his fingers through it, and just stood rooted to the spot, feeling as if my knees had turned to jelly.

“Bridget,” he said, brows drawn together in confusion.

“Hi!” I chirped. “Um, how are you?”

“Surprised to see you,” said Mark, unfailingly honest as usual. “I’ve been trying to reach you all week.”

“Oh, yes, Um. . .” Lowered my eyes, blushing, and became v interested in a miniscule hole in tights that hadn’t noticed earlier. “I’m, uh, sorry about that. I’ve been—well, never mind. I just thought I’d stop by, see how you’re getting on.”

Mark fixed me with that familiar, piercing stare, and felt as if I were seeing him again, really seeing him, for the first time since he left he off at my flat after Rebecca’s house-party last month. “I’m well, thank you,” he said finally. “Won’t you come in?”

“Oh, well. . .” (Remember resolve; cool, unavailable, ice-queen. Cool, unavailable, ice-queen.). “I really can’t stay,” I replied.

“Please,” said Mark, stepping back and gesturing me inside. “You’ve taken the time to come; the least I can do is offer you a glass of wine for your trouble.”

“Oh, um. . .” Suddenly heard Shazzer’s voice in head.  
‘Bastard! It’s a trick! He’s manipulating you with alcohol and puppy eyes. Don’t fall for it, Bridget. Cool, unavailable, ice-queen.’

“Well, maybe just one,” I conceded. Only being polite; is always polite to accept others’ hospitality. It shows good upbringing, and actually if Mum heard Mark Darcy invited me in for a drink and I refused, she might disinherit me. 

Followed Mark to the kitchen and settled self at the island. Mark located both wine and glasses with surprising ease and handed me a glass of white before pouring himself a red and sliding into a seat opposite me.

“So, how have you been?”

“Not too bad,” I said, fiddling with the stem of my wine glass. “You look well,” I added. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Great,” I said, still toying with my glass.

Mark arched a brow. “I haven’t poisoned that wine, you know.”

“Oh, right.” I blushed and took a sip. “You must be anxious to get back to work,” I observed in a lame attempt to keep the conversation afloat for at least as long as there was wine in my glass.

Mark nodded. “Yes. I’d like to be back in chambers on Monday, but the doctor advised me to just unwind for a few days before diving straight back in—let the tension of these last few weeks unravel.”

“Your mum mentioned that,” I said before I could stop the words slipping out; damn wine.

Mark frowned. “My mother? You. . . spoke to my mother?”

“Oh, um, yes,” I said hastily. “She’s been keeping me updated regularly since the accident, actually—letting me know how you’re getting on and, um. . . and everything.”

“Bridget,” said Mark, searching my face with hard, penetrating stare in manner of x-ray or similar, “did my mother ask you to come round and check on me?”

“Oh, hahahahahah, that, no—I mean she didn’t exactly. . .”

“Bridget?”

Felt self blushing under Mark’s gaze and quickly averted my own eyes. “Yes,” I whispered.

“I see.” Mark’s voice betrayed nothing; he spoke gently, even casually, but the hollow disappointment in his eyes brought tears to mine.

“Mark!” I exclaimed. “Mark, it’s not like that! Really, it’s not! Your mum did call me the other day; she did ask me if I’d look in on you; she was concerned, and so am I. that’s why I’m here—because I care. If I didn’t, do you think I’d have come?”

“You’ll forgive me,” said Mark, “but I find that hard to believe. Bridget, why haven’t you returned any of my calls?”

“I was confused, Mark,” I answered. “I didn’t know how I felt—or how you felt—and did you honestly expect me to want to talk to you after the things you said to me last week?”

Mark sighed. “No, you’re right,” he murmured. “It was wrong of me, Bridget. Please forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” I laughed scornfully. “Really? So that’s it? Forgive you? You accuse me of seeing Daniel behind your back, and then you go off with Rebecca, and I’m just supposed to act like it’s nothing?”

Mark stood and began to pace, raking a hand through his hair, a muscle in his jaw twitching. “If you’re referring to Rebecca’s dinner-party last Saturday,” he said v slowly and carefully, “I only bothered to turn up because I thought you’d be there.”

“Ha!” I scoffed, echoing Sharon. “Likely story! Rebecca didn’t even invite me to that party!”

“I know,” said Mark. “I realize that now.”

“Well, that’s convenient,” I muttered.

“Bridget, look, I don’t know what you want from me. Hasn’t it ever occurred to you that if you’d just listen to my explanations before leaping to the most erroneous conclusions, we’d never get into these scrapes? I know I didn’t pay enough heed to your concerns about Rebecca; I was wrong, and I’m sorry. I realize my apology changes nothing; it won’t erase everything that’s happened during this last month, and I don’t expect you to accept my apology. Go if you like; I can’t ask you to stay if you don’t want to, but at least give me a chance to explain. I can’t bear the thought of you walking away with an even lower opinion of me than I deserve. Leave me with a little dignity.”

“Mark,” I began, but he held up a hand to silence me.

“Bridget, just listen. Please. That’s all I’m asking. Listen; if you want to rage and storm at me afterward, fine, but just let me speak my piece.”  
Sat perfectly still, biting my lip to keep from interrupting while Mark told me everything that happened the night I saw him getting out of that taxi with Rebecca after Miss Saigon: how he’d tried to call me; how he’d gone to meet his colleagues for drinks and bumped into Rebecca; how he’d stupidly agreed to share a taxi with her when they left; how he’d confronted her about the St John snogging fiasco and the misunderstanding about us splitting up. When he finished, couldn’t decide if wanted to slap him for being an idiot or throw my arms around him and kiss him. He kept looking at me with huge, sad, kicked puppy eyes the whole time.

“Mark,” I said finally, “why didn’t you tell me all of this before?”

Mark laughed—a tired, defeated laugh that broke my heart to hear. “I did, if you recall, but as I was interrupted by the feminist peanut gallery, I’m not quite sure you were listening.” Felt insides squirming with guilt as remembered squiffy Linda Fiorentino-style rant about not needing anyone in my life because they felt they ‘owed it to me.’ “I realize,” Mark continued, “that I probably shouldn’t have endeavored to offer you an explanation with Jude and Sharon punctuating my every sentence, but it became clear to me after that conversation with Rebecca in the taxi that you’d been right all along, and whatever happened between us, whatever you felt about me, I needed you to know that I understood, and that I was sorry.”

“Oh,” I whispered, fresh tears spilling over my cheeks.  
A shiver of pain passed across Mark’s face, and he came and knelt in front of me, taking my hands in his. “Bridget,” he whispered, “I never wanted to hurt you. I’m so, so sorry I did. That was why I went to your flat that night. At first, I thought I’d just wait till the next morning—catch you alone—but I couldn’t bear the thought of doing nothing. I kept pacing the house like a lost soul, thinking of all the reasons why I shouldn’t go to you, until finally I thought, to Hell with it. To Hell with Rebecca and Jude and Sharon and the lot of them. I love you, Bridget Jones, and I wasn’t going to stand back and let anyone else try to convince you otherwise.”

Felt my heart leap into my throat at his words. “Mark,” I whispered, “say that again. What you just said.”

With the edge of his thumb, Mark brushed away the tears still sliding down my cheeks. “I love you. I know a lot has happened; I know my words can’t undo all of the hurt and confusion I’ve caused you. If you can’t see a way past all of that, I understand. If you don’t feel the same way, say the word, and I’ll never mention the subject again, but I just wanted you to know how I feel, in case you think—in case you might like to. . . make a new start.” For several moments, I could only stare back at him—all the words he’d said, and all the words he wanted to say swirling in the depths of those clear, dark, honest eyes I loved so much. “Well,” he said, standing and gently releasing my hands, “I’ve given you enough to think about. I mustn’t keep you. I just. . . wanted to tell you that.”

“Mark, I. . .” I swallowed, trying to dislodge the words sticking in my throat. Then all at once I launched myself at him, and he just managed to steady himself as we kissed. “By the way,” I said when we finally drew apart, “I love you too, in case you were wondering.”

Mark smiled. “Yes, I think you’ve made that perfectly clear.” Went on kissing until, so swiftly it made me a bit dizzy, Mark picked me up in his arms and carried me upstairs, where we tumbled together onto the bed. Mark began tugging at my skirt while I scrabbled with the zip on his jeans. Finally, with clothes tossed heedlessly to the foot of the bed, he propped himself on one elbow and looked down at me.

“Now,” he said in low, smoldering, Mr Darcy voice that would have set my knickers on fire if had still been wearing knickers, “where did we leave off?” He cocked a brow as he studied me; then his mouth turned up in a half-smile. “Ah, of course.” He bent his head and covered my mouth with his in a long, deep kiss, nudging my thighs apart with one knee and settling himself between my legs. Brain went a bit fuzzy after that, but based purely on fact that currently have no feeling below the waste, think Mark might have outdone himself. Now just lying here, snuggled up to Mark and watching him sleep; think am actually becoming a bit sleepy myself. Feel warm and happy and safe and loved, as if all is right with the world.

* * *

#### Mark, Sunday 30 March

As morning sunshine streamed in through the curtains, Mark lay on his side, watching flecks of light dance across Bridget’s hair. She’d fallen asleep spooned against his chest and now lay curled on her side, cheek pillowed on the palm of her hand. Gently he brushed a stray hair away from her face and traced a fingertip over her soft, rose-pink skin, reveling in its warmth. As he did, he smiled to himself; he’d always reprimanded Bridget for watching him sleep, but as he lay beside her now, the steady rhythm of her breathing lulling him back into a doze, he understood the allure it held—the sweet, unbroken silence, the meditative stillness in which to study a face, memorizing its curves, etching its imprint into one’s mind and heart. In the midst of his reverie, Mark realized that Bridget was gazing back at him, her pale, blue eyes misty with sleep and half-remembered dreams.

“Mark Darcy,” she said groggily, propping herself on one elbow to kiss his cheek before slumping back against the pillows, “do my eyes deceive me, or were you staring at me while I was asleep?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Guilty.” Rolling onto his back, he pulled her to his chest and bent is head to place a trail of feathery kisses along her shoulder.

“Mark?”

“hmm?”

“Mark, I’m really sorry—about everything."

“Shh,” he murmured, laying a finger over her lips.

“No, Mark, it isn’t fair. I felt terrible yesterday; everything you said, it’s all true. If I’d listened to you, if I’d let you explain everything, none of this would have happened.” She paused, chewing on her bottom lip. “I’ve been angry with you, but I’ve been angrier with myself. If we hadn’t argued, you’d never have. . . I’m just so sorry, Mark.”

“Hush, darling,” said Mark, pulling her head to his chest again. “It’s all right. We’ve both made mistakes, and I think we’ve both more than payed for them.” They lay still for several minutes, Mark resting his cheek on the top of Bridget’s head.

“Mark?”

“Hmm?”

“Mark, can I ask you something?”

“You just did, I believe.”

“Mark!” She gave him a playful poke in the ribs; then her face turned sober, and when she gazed up at him, he saw the flicker of doubt beneath the love shining in her eyes. “I’m curious about something. How did you know—when did you realize you love me? It’s just, this has been such a confusing time for you, and I don’t want you to feel—I want you to be sure--” Mark silenced her with a peck on the lips. He took a moment to relish the softened, slightly unfocused expression in her eyes before she frowned. “You’re evading the question, Mr barrister.”

“Shh, Bridget, I’m not. I’m just not quite sure how to answer. I think I just rediscovered it slowly, as my memories returned, but it came on so gradually that I can’t pinpoint a precise moment. I wasn’t aware of falling in love with you again; I was pretty far gone before I realized I’d started.”

“But when did you realize it?” prompted Bridget, urging him on with another teasing poke.

“Well, oddly enough. . .” Mark hesitated.

“Yeeeees?”

“Believe it or not, you have Rebecca to thank for the revelation.”

Bridget frowned. “Maybe I don’t want to hear this.”

“I’m not thrilled about admitting it,” said Mark, “but you deserve to know.” He took a deep breath; then told her everything—the evening at Rebecca’s party, his conversation with Jeremy, and. . .

“Mark!” Bridget shrieked. “You slept with Rebecca?”

Mark sighed. “Technically no, but it was a very near miss. I told you, I only bothered to turn up at the party in the first place because I expected to see you, and when you weren’t there, I must have got it into my head that Rebecca’s ability to irritate me would decrease in proportion to the amount of alcohol I consumed.”

Bridget folded her arms and glared at him. “Mark, you played right into her hands. I can’t say I blame you though. Small doses of Rebecca mixed with large doses of alcohol are generally the only way to stomach her.”

“yes, well, anyway,” continued Mark, “when I first woke up in her bed--”

Bridget winced. “God, do you have any idea how strange that sounds?”

“No stranger than it felt, I can assure you,” Mark replied. “But as I was saying, when I first woke up to find myself in that situation, I leapt to the obvious conclusion that we must have slept together, and Rebecca would’ve been content to let me go on thinking it if I hadn’t confronted her. When I did, her answer was sufficiently vague to leave me in little doubt that in the light of day, things weren’t as they’d appeared.”

“But Mark,” Bridget protested, “you said you didn’t remember. How can you be sure you didn’t sleep with her?”

He smiled. “If I’ve learned one valuable life skill from my line of work, it’s how to tell when someone is lying.”

Bridget frowned. “Really? If that were true, you’d have caught onto Rebecca’s game much sooner.”

“I think I was beginning to,” said Mark. “My failure to communicate that to you was, I confess, an error of judgement; I thought you knew how I felt, and perhaps I was too much in love with you to give much thought to the attentions of anyone else. Rebecca’s interest meant nothing to me, but as I said last night, I ought to have alleviated your fears instead of dismissing them. I’m sorry for that, Bridget.”

“You did look a bit upset when we bumped into Rebecca at Courchevel,” Bridget admitted. “but I thought, well. . .”

“You thought my discomfort was proof of a guilty conscience,” murmured Mark. Bridget sighed; sitting up, she hugged her knees to her chest and stared into space. “Bridget,” Mark whispered, resting a hand on her cheek and turning her face toward his again, “I’m sorry. Whatever happened, even if things didn’t go as far as Rebecca would’ve had me believe, they went further than I should have allowed them to.”

Again, Bridget sighed. “I hear what you’re saying, Mark,” she said. “I just don’t know what to think. If you knew—if you realized last month that Rebecca was making a play for you, how could you have put yourself in that situation? Maybe you were drunk, but you’re not stupid; at least, I didn’t think you were. Everything you told me last night, everything you said you realized, that was before the accident. A lot has happened since then.”

Mark nodded. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Truthfully, I wasn’t thinking—not with my usual clarity, anyway, but things were starting to become clear enough that I shouldn’t have allowed Rebecca to manipulate my emotions the way she did.”

“so why did you, then?” demanded Bridget.

“Because. . .” Mark hesitated. “Because I thought I’d lost my chance to make things right with you,” he whispered. “Everything I told you last night about what I’d begun to discover regarding Rebecca before the accident, well, obviously I didn’t remember any of it; it wasn’t until the morning after her party that those memories came back to me. I kept thinking about that last conversation I’d had with you—how I’d jumped to the wrong conclusions about Daniel, and what you must have thought of me for that, although--” he paused and offered her a half-smile, “you wasted little time telling me what you thought. I felt confused; I felt vulnerable, and, well. . .”

“And you were drunk,” Bridget concluded, tentatively returning his smile.

“yes, I. . . believe I mentioned that.”

“So what happened? I mean, to hear you tell it, you just went to this dinner-party, drunkenly snogged Rebecca, passed out in her bed, and then woke up and had this illuminating, Road to Damascus epiphany.”

“Well, it wasn’t quite so dramatic, but that’s almost precisely what did happen. When Rebecca started going on about how perfect she thought we’d be for each other and that I’d begin to see it if I gave us a chance, I just found myself telling her it wasn’t possible, because I was in love with you.”

“Oh, Mark.” Bridget’s eyes filled with tears, and she wound her arms around him, burying her head in his chest.

“The words were out of my mouth before I even realized I’d thought them, but once I said it, I knew it was true, and all of my memories of you just came flooding back. I felt like I was seeing clearly for the first time since the accident. Then I had a long talk about everything with my mother, and she told me I should just be honest with you—tell you everything I felt, because I couldn’t expect you to understand what I was feeling if I just carried it around in silence. That’s why I’ve been trying to call you, Bridget. Everything I said last night, everything I’ve just told you, I’ve wanted to say it all week—you have no idea how much. If you hadn’t turned up at my door, I might have gone to you eventually, but I thought your silence told me everything I needed to know.” Bridget said nothing; just tightened her hold on him and wept quietly into his chest. “I love you, Bridget,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. “And I’ve missed you. God, how I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too,” she said, lifting her head and reaching up to cradle his face in her hands. “I mean, really missed you; this last month, it’s been so hard, watching you struggle to piece your life and your memories back together. Every time I looked at you, it felt like a part of you was missing, so a part of me was missing too.”

“But I’m here now, my love,” he said, rocking her gently in his arms. “I’m right here, but. . .” He paused. “Bridget, I’ve just thought of something. Oh God.”

Bridget looked up at him, eyes wide with alarm. “Mark, what is it? Is something wrong?”

“No, no, I’m fine; it’s not that. It’s only. . .” Overcome, he let his head drop onto her shoulder as he began to laugh. “I’ve just realized. . . I’ve known you for thirty years. . . and I’ve completely forgotten your name!” Bridget began to giggle, and as her laughter mingled with his, he tilted her face up toward him, savoring the sweetness of that laugh as he kissed her.


End file.
